SKOOT 


A  STORY  OF 
UNCONVENTIONAL  GOODNESS 


BY  CORA  G.  SADLER 


CINCINNATI:     JENNINGS    &    PYE 
NEW    YORK:     EATON    &    MAINS 


COPYRIGHT,    1902,   BY 
JENNINGS    *    PYK 


FIFTH  THOUSAND. 


O  out  in  the  alley  and  play,  I  say.    There  's 
work   enough  to   do   without   taking  care 
of  you.     Clear  out  now,  every  last  one  of  yer." 

A  couple  of  barefooted,  bareheaded  children 
scuttled  through  the  door  which  the  woman  held 
open  into  the  glare  and  heat  of  a  July  morning. 
If  it  was  hot  in  the  city  parks,  where  men  lounged 
on  the  benches,  and  nurse  girls  wearily  trundled 
baby  buggies  back  and  forth,  how  much  more  un- 
bearable was  the  day  in  Pinch  Alley,  with  its 
swarms  of  children  playing  around  the  doorways 
and  ash-heaps !  They  quarreled  and  wrangled, 
while  the  women  in  the  long  tenement-block  hung 
out  lengths  of  dingy  washing  on  the  pulley-lines, 
and  scolded  at  each  other  from  opposite  windows. 


2229076 


4  SKOOT 

The  alley  children  were  playing  their  favorite 
game — the  one,  alas !  which  they  most  frequently 
saw  acted  in  earnest — "playing  drunk."  A  boy 
of  twelve  years  or  so  lay  sprawling  in  the  dirt, 
while  a  girl  went  through  certain  motions  at  a 
neighboring  post,  intended  to  represent  ringing  up 
the  "hurry-up  wagon."  A  freckle-faced  boy  came 
rushing  along,  dragging  a  board  by  a  long  rope, 
with  much  clatter  and  confusion.  The  inebriate, 
who  was  apparently  in  a  heavy  stupor,  was  tumbled 
into  this  presumable  ambulance,  and  then  the 
freckle-faced  boy  drove  off  furiously  with  him. 

A  few  rounds  of  the  play,  and  then  the  long 
boy  stood  up,  impatiently.  "I  'm  tired  of  this,"  he 
said ;  "it 's  too  hot  for  this  kind  of  play."  He  drew 
himself  up  slowly,  like  a  very  long,  very  thin,  very 
moderate  Jack-in-the-box.  He  was  grotesquely 
arrayed  in  a  pair  of  pantaloons  much  too  long, 
and  a  torn  jacket  much  too  short.  He  had  a 
little,  old,  sharp  face,  with  the  pinched,  keen  ex- 
pression so  often  found  among  a  great  city's  poor. 
His  hands  were  long  and  bony,  his  shoulders 
stooped,  his  voice  thin.  In  fact,  everything  about 
him  was  thin  but  his  hair.  This  was  red  and 
thick,  as  though  Nature  would  make  amends  for 


SKOOT  5 

scantiness  elsewhere,  and  stood  out  aggressively 
in  more  than  the  four  directions  of  the  compass, 
bristling  at  every  spear.  His  extraordinary  length 
of  limb,  together  with  the  unparalleled  rate  of 
speed  thus  afforded,  had  won  for  him  the  name 
of  Skoot.  If  ever  he  had  another  name,  it  was 
sunk  in  the  slum  of  Pinch  Alley.  As  Skoot  he 
was  known,  and  as  Skoot  we  must  know  him. 

"I  'm  goin'  up  to  get  Pansy,"  he  said,  after 
meditatively  kicking  a  small  stone  about  with  his 
bare  feet ;  "it  must  be  hot  enough  to  melt  cobble- 
stones up  in  that  kitchen.  You  find  a  shady  place, 
an'  we  '11  all  set  around,  an'  she  '11  tell  us  a  story." 

Skoot  ran  nimbly  down  the  alley,  mopping  his 
face  as  he  went,  until  he  reached  a  door  that 
stood  open,  revealing  the  squalor  of  the  lower  flat ; 
up  a  flight  of  rat-eaten  stairs,  rickety  even  under 
the  boy's  light  weight;  over  one,  two,  three,  four 
landings,  where  a  door  opened  into  a  kitchen  misty 
with  suds  and  steam.  A  woman  bent  over  a  tub, 
and  a  little  girl  of  perhaps  eight  years,  with  folded 
hands  and  wide,  violet  eyes,  sat  on  a  wooden  stool 
by  the  window. 

The  woman  turned  on  Skoot  angrily.  She  was 
coarse-featured  and  florid.  By  a  perpetual  frown, 


6  SKOOT 

her  eyebrows  had  become  contracted  until  they 
met.  Glancing  from  her  to  the  little  girl,  it  was 
plain  that  there  could  be  no  blood  relationship. 

"Now,  Skoot  Higgins,  what  are  yer  here  for 
again?"  Mrs.  Turner  demanded,  savagely.  "Tryin' 
to  break  through  that  stair  that  ye  Ve  cracked  al- 
ready, are  yer?  Or  maybe  you  want  to  steal  my 
matches  again  for  them  cigar-stumps  as  yer  for- 
ever pickin'  up  in  the  streets."  , 

"Aw,  gawan,"  replied  the  boy,  indifferently 
kicking  a  chair  aside  with  one  foot,  and  impudently 
balancing  himself  on  the  other  before  advancing 
into  the  room.  "Who  do  yer  suppose  would  come 
three  flights  to  see  yer  scowlin'  face  ?  It 's  Pansy 
I  'm  wantin'.  Come  down  in  the  alley  with  me, 
Pansy,"  he  went  on,  in  a  different  voice ;  "it 's 
that  much  cooler  down  there  you  M  not  believe  it." 

The  child  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  expectant, 
with  arms  outstretched.  There  was  a  lost,  pitiful 
expression  in  the  beautiful  eyes,  deep  and  velvety 
as  the  flower  whose  name  she  wore.  But  it  was 
the  look  that  the  sightless  have.  Pansy  was  blind ! 

Poor  Pansy !  While  her  mother  lived,  poverty, 
with  its  attendant  hunger,  privations,  exposure  to 
heat  and  cold,  had  been  hers;  but  a  harsh  word, 


SKOOT  7 

a  heavy  hand — never.  The  first  Mrs.  Turner  was 
a  small,  frail  woman,  who  had  sewed  unceasingly 
on  "piece  work"  to  bring  the  bare  necessities  of 
life  into  the  wretched  home.  Her  husband  was 
a  shiftless,  idle  fellow,  who  made  a  little  money 
occasionally,  the  greater  part  of  which  found  its 
way  into  the  tills  of  one  of  the  many  saloons  on 
a  near  street.  So  little  Mrs.  Turner  sewed  on, 
struggling  with  heartache  and  weakness  of  body, 
until  one  day,  with  a  hungry  kiss  upon  Pansy's 
face,  and  a  desperate  gathering  of  the  little  form 
to  her  heart,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and 
fell  asleep — asleep  in  Jesus ;  for  she  was  one  of  his. 
The  hours  that  followed  were  one  long  night 
of  tears  for  Pansy.  For  the  future  she  was  to 
know  grief,  with  no  mother's  hand  to  soothe  and 
comfort.  She  realized  that  the  room  was  full  of 
people,  many  of  them  strangers.  One  man  es- 
pecially, with  a  loud,  imperative  voice,  made  her 
tremble  nervously.  There  was  the  sound  of  drag- 
ging, as  of  something  heavy  over  the  bare  floor, 
the  sobs  of  the  kindly  neighbor  women,  and  then 
Pansy  was  allowed  to  feel  in  the  long  box  for  her 
mother's  face.  The  trembling  little  hands  crept 
along  the  waist,  the  sleeve,  until  they  touched  the 


8  SKOOT 

features.  How  cold  her  mother  was!  how  still! 
Why  did  she  not  speak  to  her — to  Pansy?  Then 
she  had  been  roughly  pushed  aside ;  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  hammer,  and  rough  but  kindly  neigh- 
bors led  the  child  away.  When  she  returned,  after 
the  lapse  of  some  hours,  she  ran  swiftly  to  the 
bed,  and  passed  her  hands  over  it ;  then  from  chair 
to  chair,  only  to  throw  herself,  sobbing,  on  the 
floor  at  last.  O,  the  utter  desolation  of  heart,  as 
day  succeeded  day,  and  she  became  used  to  being 
alone ! 

And  then  one  day  her  father  had  told  her  that 
she  had  a  new  mother,  and  the  child  had  passed 
her  hands  over  a  strange  woman's  face,  shrinking 
from  the  rough  voice  and  coarse  features.  Then 
she  had  gone  swiftly  back  to  her  stool  by  the 
window,  there  to  weep  silently  and  to  wonder 
about  it  all. 

The  new  wife  was  not  slow  to  perceive  the 
child's  aversion.  It  was  written  upon  every  line 
of  the  sensitive  face  when  her  stepmother  railed 
and  scolded,  as  she  did  every  day.  Neglect  and 
abuse,  in  all  their  endless  and  cruel  manifestations, 
were  now  for  Pansy  to  know.  The  woman's  ill- 
feeling  spent  itself  in  curses  and  blows,  and  then 


SKOOT  9 

the  child  would  grope  her  way  to  the  place  by  the 
window,  with  wet  cheeks  and  heaving  breast,  yet 
making  no  cry. 

Skoot  was  Pansy's  one  friend  and  protector. 
To  every  one  else  all  combativeness  and  ag- 
gressiveness, to  her  he  was  all  gentleness.  No 
one  of  the  alley  children  ever  raised  a  laugh 
against  Pansy  in  his  presence.  Skoot  had  a  repu- 
tation of  being  very  swift  and  sudden  in  his  con- 
clusions, and  there  were  many  who  had  tested  the 
strength  of  his  long  right  arm. 

Now  he  led  Pansy  across  the  floor,  skillfully 
parrying  with  his  hand  the  missile  hurled  at  the 
unconscious  brown  head.  At  the  landing  he 
stopped  long  enough  to  execute  another  trium- 
phant war-dance  upon  one  foot  for  the  benefit  of 
the  angry  woman  within;  then  he  gently  lifted 
Pansy,  and  carried  her,  as  a  mother  would  an  in- 
fant, down  the  steep  stairs,  into  the  hot,  bright 
air  outside. 

"Yer  weigh  less  'n  nuthin'  to-day,  little  one," 
he  said,  as  he  tenderly  put  her  down.  "Let 's  see 
if  I  can  find  anything  fur  yer  to  eat."  He  made 
a  great  show  of  rummaging  in  numerous  imagi- 
nary pockets,  finally  drawing  out  a  shining  early 


10  SKOOT 

apple  from  a  side  pocket  where  it  had  been 
officiously  bulging  all  the  time.  "Why,  what 's 
this  'ere?"  he  said,  looking  at  it,  and  pretending 
surprise.  "O  yes;  this  is  one  I  hooked  from  the 
fruit-cart  on  purpose  for  you.  Down  with  it, 
quick." 

But  Pansy's  hand  refused  the  gift.  "O  Skoot, 
that  was  stealing,"  she  said,  in  a  soft,  pretty  voice ; 
"you  can  not  go  to  heaven  if  you  steal.  Mamma 
said  so." 

"Did  she?"  asked  the  boy,  scratching  his  fore- 
head meditatively.  "Well  now,  come  ter  think  on 
it,  that  ain't  the  one  I  hooked.  I  et  that  one 
myself.  This  one  a  man  give  me — I  mean  I  found 
it,  picked  it  up." 

"Where,  Skoot?" 

"Er — jest  down  by  the  corner.  I  expect  it 
must  hev  rolled  off  'n  some  cart  or  other.  Now 
tuck  it  away,  little  un,  an'  do  n't  fret." 

So  Pansy  ate  the  fruit  with  much  relish,  and 
then,  laying  her  hand  in  his,  they  started  toward 
the  little  group  Skoot  had  left.  The  blind  girl 
could  take  no  part  in  their  rough  plays,  as  they 
well  knew.  So  they  gathered  around  her,  seat- 
ing themselves  where  they  could  draw  men  and 


SKOOT  ii 

figures  in  the  dirt  with  their  fingers,  and  clamored 
for  a  story. 

A  queer  little  group  for  your  Kodak,  my  girl, 
you  would  have  thought,  had  you  come  unex- 
pectedly upon  them,  as  did  a  lady  in  a  close  bon- 
net with  white  ties,  and  who  carried  a  basket  fairly 
dripping  over  with  field  and  garden  flowers.  So 
absorbed  were  the  children  in  the  coming  story 
that  the  stranger  drew  near  unnoticed. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Pansy,  settling  herself  com- 
fortably, "what  sort  of  a  place  this  is.  Is  it  pretty, 
is  it  fresh  and  clean?" 

"No — no,"  chorused  the  children,  emphatically. 

"It 's  hotter  than  the — equator,"  said  Pete 
Lawkins,  who  had  been  to  grammar  school,  and 
felt  that  the  advantages  of  his  superior  education 
should  afford  simile  extraordinary.  It  had  its  ef- 
fect, for  none  of  the  others  knew  what  he  meant, 
and  regarded  him  with  looks  of  envious  admira- 
tion. 

"The  sun  just  pours  down,  and  makes  a  feller's 
head  hot  as  blazes,"  remarked  Mike. 

"The  babies  are  hall  'owlin',"  contributed  Jane, 
who  was  Cornish,  and  just  over. 

"But   I  'm   going   to   tell  you  a   story,'"  said 


12  SKOOT 

Pansy,  "a  truly  story,  about  a  beautiful  place  where 
there  are  trees  and  flowers  and  a  great  river  and — " 

"O — O !"  came  in  a  delighted  murmur. 

"How  fur  off  is  it?"  demanded  practical  Pete. 

"It 's  heaven,  Pete,"  answered  Pansy,  in  a 
hushed  voice,  "where  my  mamma  went,  and  where 
nobody  is  sick,  or  tired,  or — blind.  It 's  the  city 
where  Jesus  lives." 

"Pooh !"  said  Pete,  in  disdain.  "That 's  a  mis- 
sion story.  I  heerd  'em  tell  it  down  there.  There 
ain't  no  sech  truly  place." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  replied  the  child,  earnestly.  "I 
know  it 's  a  truly  place,  for  mamma  used  to  tell 
me  about  it  and  sing  about  it.  Sometimes  I  dream 
about  her  at  night,  when  it 's  so  hot  and  bad  here 
in  the  alley,  and  I  can  see  her — for  I  am  not 
blind  then — walking  towards  me  through  fields  of 
flowers,  and  smiling  at  me ;  and  O,  she  is  so  happy ! 
Did  you  never  hear  my  mamma  sing  her  heaven 
song?  Listen — I  will  sing  it  for  you." 

With  folded  hands,  and  lifted  face,  the  child 
sang ;  and  the  music  floated  out  on  the  hot,  bright 
air,  past  windows  and  doorways,  up  dark  stairs  to 
the  upper  flats  where  puny  children  cried  while 
their  mothers  worked;  up  past  the  tiled  roofs  and 


SKOOT  13 

rows  of  sooty  chimneys, — up  past  all  the  pollution 
and  discord  of  earth  to  the  very  throne  itself. 

"  My  heavenly  home  is  bright  and  fair, 
Nor  pain  nor  death  can  enter  there  ; 
Its  glittering  towers  the  sun  outshine, 
That  heavenly  mansion  shall  be  mine." 

Not  until  the  last  note  died  away  was  the 
deaconess  noticed.  Then  the  freckle-faced  boy 
made  a  sudden  dive,  not  at  her,  but  at  the  flowers 
she  carried.  With  a  whoop  they  surrounded  her, 
stretching  out  eager,  unwashed  hands.  After 
satisfying  them,  Miss  Percy  seated  herself  by 
Pansy,  who  had  not  moved  or  spoken.  The 
deaconess  gave  the  flowers  into  her  hands — roses, 
geraniums,  violets,  heliotrope — sent  into  the 
Deaconess  Home  that  morning  by  a  country 
League.  Pansy  pressed  them  to  her  cheeks,  her 
lips,  enjoying  their  fragrance  and  coolness. 

If  the  bright-faced  girls  who  had  gathered  and 
sent  the  flowers  could  have  seen  the  eagerness 
of  the  grimy  hands,  the  delight  of  the  children's 
faces!  Pete  was  gingerly  holding  a  cluster  of 
heavy,  white  verbenas.  He  had  not  thought  be- 
fore of  his  hands  being  dirty;  but  as  he  looked 
at  the  waxy  blossoms,  he  muttered,  "My,  ain't 


14  SKOOT 

they  clean,  though !"  and  straightway  went  to 
smearing  his  hand  on  his  mouth  and  rubbing  it 
on  his  trouser's  leg,  with  the  purpose  of  some- 
how making  it,  too,  clean. 

Miss  Percy  sat  beside  Pansy  for  a  long  time, 
holding  her  hand,  and  drawing  from  her  her 
pathetic  history.  Truly,  to  this  woman  had  come 
the  coveted  gift  of  "skill  in  comfort's  art."  She 
talked  wisely  and  lovingly  to  the  child  of  heavenly 
things,  marveling  greatly  at  Pansy's  spiritual  in- 
sight and  comprehension  of  eternal  truths. 

A  little  later  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  visit 
the  stepmother.  A  great  pity  for  the  child  swept 
over  her  as  she  looked  past  the  hard-faced  woman 
holding  the  door  open  into  the  wretched  room 
beyond.  As  she  turned  away,  the  thought  im- 
pressed her — as  it  did  so  often  in  her  work — what 
would  the  coming  of  Jesus  into  this  home  mean? 
What  could  Jesus  do  for  this  home? 

Going  down  the  last  stair,  she  encountered  a 
man  just  starting  to  go  up — a  gross,  heavy,  blear- 
eyed  fellow — who  muttered  without  looking  at  her. 
Passing  on  to  the  children,  they  told  her  it  was 
Pansy's  father  who  had  just  gone  in. 


SKOOT  15 

Such  a  father!  Such  a  home!  And  such  a 
child!  One  of  the  Lord's  little  ones  strayed  into 
a  dark,  sad  corner  of  earth.  Could  nothing  be  done 
for  her  ?  Must  this  flower  of  the  Divine  Gardener 
droop  and  die  in  the  foul,  murky  air  of  Pinch 
Alley? 


ON  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  three  girls 
sat  together  in  a  luxuriously-appointed  room 

in  one  of  the  great  houses  of  M Avenue.     It 

was  distinctively  a  girl's  room,  as  evidenced  by 
the  dainty  belongings  scattered  lavishly  about. 
The  carpet  of  blended  russet  and  moss  reminded 
one  of  wood-paths  in  October;  the  walls  and 
draperies  were  in  soft,  harmonizing  tones  of 
green;  a  bed  artistically  draped  in  Swiss,  filmy  as 
meadow  mist;  an  open  writing-desk,  with  a  set 
of  swinging  book-shelves  above  it ;  a  couch  heaped 
with  pillows  of  silk  and  down;  in  the  light  of  the 
western  window  a  Madonna  haloed  with  the  added 
glory  of  a  gathering  sunset. 

Margaret  Doane,  the  young  mistress  of  all  this 
16 


SKOOT  17 

elegance,  rocked  listlessly  by  the  window,  a  dis- 
contented expression  upon  her  face.  She  was  the 
only  daughter  of  a  lawyer  who  had  attained  un- 
usual eminence ;  from  childhood  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  these  surroundings. 

Not  so  her  two  friends,  Molly  Weston  and 
Dora  Clark.  Molly,  the  youngest  of  the  three, 
had  just  been  released  from  a  stuffy  fourth-story 
office  for  a  vacation.  Molly  was  rosy,  dimpled, 
and  captivating.  Her  curly  head,  used  to  bending 
over  the  typewriter,  was  brimming  with  fun  and 
innocent  girlishness. 

Dora  Clark,  the  third  of  our  girls,  had  just  re- 
turned from  college  with  the  coveted  parchment 
duly  dated  and  certified.  But  as  yet  she  had  not 
decided  on  her  future. 

A  few  years  before,  these  girls  had  stood  side 
by  side  in  the  graduating  class  of  the  high  school. 
Later  there  came  a  day  when  they  again  stood 
together  at  the  altars  of  the  church,  and  took 
upon  themselves  the  white  vows  of  discipleship. 
But  many  things  had  entered  in  to  draw  them 
away  from  the  spiritual  life.  With  Margaret  it 
had  been  worldly  parents  and  associates;  with 
Molly,  the  wearing  monotony  of  office  work,  amid 


i8  SKOOT 

companionship,  at  the  best,  unprofitable;  while 
Dora's  steady  eyes  had  been  long  fixed  upon  the 
goal  just  attained  to  the  exclusion  of  spiritual 
growth.  Being  a  thoughtful  girl,  the  one-sided- 
ness  of  her  life  was  becoming  apparent  to  her. 

They  were  a  very  serious  group  of  girls  that 
afternoon.  Somehow  the  conversation  had  drifted 
back  to  old-time  reminiscences  and  school-day  an- 
ticipations ;  then  again  to  the  present,  and  Dora 
had  spoken  of  the  emptiness  of  her  so-called  re- 
ligious life.  An  Epworth  League  topic  card  on 
the  table  suggested  her  question. 

"And  do  you  still  go  to  League  meetings, 
Margie?"  she  asked.  "And  do  you,  Molly?  It 
is  an  age  since  I  have  been.  Of  course,  we  had 
chapel  worship  at  college ;  but  somehow  my  mind 
formed  the  habit  of  going  over  class  work  and 
recitations  at  that  time.  And  now,  when  I  go  to 
church,  it  seems  as  if  I  can  not  frame  my  mind 
to  worship  at  all." 

"I  go,  once  in  a  while,"  said  Molly.  "The  fact 
is,  the  meetings  do  n't  seem  what  they  used  to  be 
when  we  all  went  together.  I  wonder  if  they 
have  really  changed  or  I  have?  I  generally  try 
to  attend  consecration  nights,  and  answer  to  roll- 


SKOOT  19 

call  with  a  Scripture  verse  or  quotation,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"But  surely,"  remonstrated  Dora,  "that  is  not 
an  ideal  consecration-meeting  for  any  one?  Con- 
secration !  I  can  remember  when  the  word  meant 
so  much  to  me,  and,  I  think,  to  us  all.  In  some 
way  we  have  lost  the  joy  and  confidence  of  the 
Christian  experience  we  then  had.  I  wonder  how 
it  came  to  be  so.  And  yet  we  are  all  members  of 
M Avenue  Church.  It  seems  like  a  mockery." 

"What  would  you  advise,"  laughed  Molly, 
"that  Dr.  Armor  mark  our  names  around  with 
black  ink,  'Backslidden  ?'  " 

"That 's  just  where  we  are,  to  be  honest,"  re- 
turned Margaret,  gravely.  "We  are  worse;  we 
are  pretenders  of  what  we  acknowledge  we  do  not 
possess,  and  hence  we  are — hypocrites.  Now 
there  's  our  League  pledge,"  she  went  on,  taking 
the  little  card  in  her  hand,  and  turning  to  the 
cover.  "What  could  be  more  inclusive?  'I  will 
earnestly  seek  for  myself — what?  Pleasure,  ad- 
miration, culture,  satisfaction  of  self  in  its  thou- 
sand forms?  No.  'I  will  earnestly  seek  for  my- 
self the  highest  New  Testament  standard  of  ex- 
perience and  life.'  How  high  is  it,  I  wonder? 


20  SKOOT 

How  much  of  personal  earnestness  do  we  feel  in 
this  matter?  'And  do  what  I  can  to  help  others 
attain.'  Here  we  touch  upon  influence.  This  one 
sentence  suggests  so  much  that  is  uplifting." 

"The  fact  is,"  she  continued,  "that  I  have  n't 
kept  myself  up  to  the  pledge,  or  to  any  standard. 
It  takes  resoluteness  and  strength  to  keep  our- 
selves up.  It  is  like  the  time  when  a  party  of  us 
were  upset  in  the  river,  when  the  sudden  wind 
struck  the  boat.  I  just  held  on  to  the  side,  and 
held  on  to  keep  up.  If  I  had  lost  my  grip,  I 
should  have  gone  down.  I  think  it  is  so  in  our 
Christian  lives.  It  takes  purpose  and  will  to  hold 
on;  and  not  having  that,  or  at  least  not  using 
it  if  we  did  have  it,  we  have  lost  our  grip,  so  to 
speak.  For  a  few  years  my  life  has  been  purpose- 
less, just  purposeless.  If  I  had  some  work  to 
do,  like  you,  Molly,  I  should  be  more  contented. 
A  college  course  is  out  of  the  question  for  me, 
because,  as  you  know,  my  eyes  are  not  equal  to 
the  strain.  Music,  painting,  and  those  'frills'  are 
tediousness  itself,  even  what  little  I  do  of  them. 
I  believe,"  with  a  laugh,  "I  should  have  been  a 
poor  girl.  The  lazy  comfort  of  my  life  is  purely 
selfish,  and  unfits  me  for  anything  useful." 


SKOOT  21 

Molly  glanced  longingly  around  the  exquisite 
room,  and  then  at  Margaret's  face.  Margaret  read 
her  thought. 

"Nothing  of  temporal  blessings  are  of  use  un- 
less they  help  us  to  be  better.  These  pleasant 
things  do  not  satisfy  me.  I  am  not  sure  that  they 
even  help  me.  They  are  only  temporalities,  at  the 
best.  When  I  first  became  a  Christian,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  emptiness  of  my  life  were  taken  away,  and 
I  had  something  satisfying.  But  the  last  time  I 
went  to  prayer-meeting  the  prayers  were  so  long 
and  the  testimonies  so  poky  that  I  decided  not  to 
go  again.  Dr.  Armor  spoke  to  me  about  it  one 
day  at  Sunday-school — I  do  still  go  there — and  I 
told  him  the  prayer-meeting  made  me  fidgety ;  and 
then  he  seemed  so  grieved  that  my  conscience 
troubled  me  for  having  spoken  so." 

"I  have  a  bright  idea!"  exclaimed  Molly,  tap- 
ping the  brown  curls  that  were  dancing  dis- 
tractedly as  she  nodded  her  head;  "a  bright  idea, 
just  the  one  with  which  to  meet  this  occasion. 
You  two  fortunate  ones  have  all  the  time  there 
is  for  a  vacation,  while  I  have  n't  had  one  before 
for  two  years.  Now  the  point  is  to  crowd  as 
much  as  possible  into  this  summer — see?  Now 


22  SKOOT 

do  n't  twist,  Dora.  It  really  is  n't  becoming,  and 
I  am  getting  along  to  my  idea.  You  know  notices 
are  out  for  a  Chautauqua  Assembly  at  Idlewood 
Grove.  Now  Idlewood  is  a  place  to  dream  about. 
I  've  been  there ;  but  you  have  n't — little  lake,  cov- 
ered with  pond-lilies,  and  boats  to  be  had  at 
twenty-five  cents  an  hour,  thick  pine  woods,  with 
summer  cottages  and  a  circle  of  tents,  birds,  squir- 
rels, and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Now  would  n't  it 
be  a  good  thing  for  us  all  to  pack  up  and  rent 
one  of  those  same  delightful  cottages  for  the  sum- 
mer, enjoy  the  pines,  the  boating,  and  the — the — 
meetings  for  a  while,  and  just  have  a  genuine 
good  time?" 

The  girls  caught  eagerly  at  the  suggestion. 
Molly's  dimples  grew  positively  wicked  as  she  saw 
the  success  of  her  plan. 

"And  we  must  take  turns  housekeeping,"  she 
went  on.  "Girls  always  do  at  Chautauqua.  I  shiver 
when  I  think  of  Margie's  pancakes  when  it  comes 
her  morning.  Seriously,  Margie,  do  you  bake 
pancakes  or  boil  them?  I  wonder  if  you  know." 

The  girls  all  laughed,  and  at  once  began  mak- 
ing plans,  in  enthusiastic  girl  fashion. 

"Mamma  will  not  approve,  of  course,"  said 


SKOOT  23 

Margaret ;  "she  thinks  camping  is  dreadfully  com- 
mon and  coarse.  But  she  will  be  willing  for  me 
to  go,  for  she  knows  I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  the 
beach  this  summer.  The  boom  of  the  surf  sounds 
like  cannon,  and  the  rocks  and  sand  are  so  hot. 
Yes,  I  thing  a  pine  grove  will  be  a  delightful 
change." 

"Then  it  is  settled,"  said  Dora,  "we  three  are 
to  rent  a  cottage  and  take  possession.  The  cot- 
tages are  furnished,  of  course  ?  Well,  and  you  will 
see  to  engaging  it,  Molly?  You  know  the  place 
better  than  we  do." 

"I  '11  do  it,"  returned  the  energetic  Molly.  "We 
must  be  ready  to  migrate  next  Tuesday  morning. 
We  must  take  our  mackintoshes,  and  umbrellas, 
and  rubbers,  for  at  Idlewood  it  rains  all  the  time — " 

"O,  how  horrid!"  interrupted  the  others. 

"That  the  sun  does  n't  shine,"  finished  Molly, 
severely.  "Then  there  is  something  else  I  was 
going  to  speak  of.  You  remember  Maud  Percy, 
don't  you?" 

"Maud  Percy?  O  yes,"  replied  Margaret. 
"She  graduated  from  high  school  the  year  that 
we  entered.  She  is  some  years  older  than  we  are. 
She  went  away  to  some  Christian  training-school — 


24  SKOOT 

a  Deaconess  Home,  I  think  it  was — some  three 
or  four  years  ago." 

"Well,  she  is  here  in  the  city,"  rejoined  Molly, 
"wearing  a  little  close  bonnet  with  white  ties,  and 
she  has  grown  so  pretty!  She  is  a  full-fledged 
deaconess  now,  and  has  been  working  here  in  the 
city  for  some  time.  Strange  we  have  n't  seen  her ! 
But  then  we  do  n't  go  to  prayer-meeting,  and  Sun- 
day mornings  one  can  never  tell  who  is  at  church. 
But  next  Sunday  evening  she  is  going  to  tell  the 
people  all  about  deaconesses  and  their  work.  And 
I  see  by  the  Chautauqua  program  that  she  is  to 
speak  there,  too.  We  must  all  hear  her.  Won't 
it  be  pleasant  to  meet  her  again  ?  She  was  always 
so  sensible  and  sweet." 

A  bell  tinkled  somewhere  below  stairs,  and 
Margaret  insisted  on  her  friends  going  down  to 
dinner  with  her.  They  locked  arms,  and  went  down 
the  broad  stairway,  past  the  open  drawing-room 
door,  disclosing  the  elegant  appointments  of  wealth 
and  culture ;  thence  on  to  the  dining-room,  where 
Margaret's  parents  awaited  them. 

Mrs.  Doane  was  a  querulous,  doll-like  little 
woman,  fond  of  diamonds  and  dinner-gowns.  Her 
hands  sparkled  with  gems  as  she  languidly  greeted 


SKOOT  25 

her  daughter's  friends.  Mr.  Doane  was  handsome, 
portly,  and  jolly.  The  light  from  the  western  win- 
dows glittered  upon  the  silver  and  cut  glass.  A 
black  serving-man,  mute  as  the  servitor  of  the 
Lily  Maid  of  Astolot,  waited  deftly  upon  the  needs 
of  the  company. 

"You  will  have  wine,  Miss  Dora?"  said  the 
master  of  the  house,  as  a  glass  of  the  glowing 
liquid  was  placed  beside  her.  "No?  You  and 
Margaret  will  agree,  for  she  refuses  it  altogether. 
Do  you  belong  to  the  Abstinence  Society  too, 
Miss  Molly?" 

Poor  Molly!  Her  breath  came  hard.  She 
loved  this  sumptuous  elegance  with  all  her  giddy 
heart.  There  was  a  young  man  in  the  office  whose 
breath  frequently  smelled  of  wine.  She  reached 
out  her  hand  for  the  glass,  but  Margaret's  eyes 
met  hers  with  such  entreaty  that  she  crimsoned 
deeply,  and  declined  it.  But  the  pleasure  of  the 
dinner  was  gone  for  her.  This  home,  with  all  its 
elegance — what  was  it  worth  compared  with  eter- 
nal glory  ?  And  why  should  she  so  suddenly  have 
bethought  herself  of  the  lowly  life  of  One  who, 
as  it  is  recorded,  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head?" 


"T  WANT  to  talk  with  you  a  few  minutes  to- 
J-  day,  Margie,"  said  Mrs.  Doane  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning.  "I  have  something  interesting 
to  tell  you.  Mr.  Merton  called  on  your  father  yes- 
terday, and  asked  permission  to  speak  with  you 
personally  this  evening." 

"I  do  not  care  to  see  him,"  replied  Margaret, 
coldly.  "He  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  which 
I  care  to  hear." 

"Margaret !" 

"It  is  quite  true,"  said  the  girl,  steadily.  "Of 
course,  I  have  been  expecting  this,  for  Guy  Merton 
is  too  conceited  to  know  when  he  is  repulsed.  I 
despise  the  fellow  too  heartily  to  even  receive  him. 

26 


SKOOT  27 

With  his  eyeglass,  and  squinting  eyes,  he  irritates 
me." 

"Margaret,  he  is  an  only  child,  and  his  father 
is  a  millionaire !" 

"If  he  be  a  billionaire,  it  would  be  nothing  to 
me,  mamma.  As  far  as  may  be,  I  desire  to  please 
you,  and  be  obedient  to  your  wishes;  but  this  is 
time  and  breath  wasted." 

"You  talk  folly,  folly  of  the  extremest  kind," 
said  her  mother,  bitterly.  "Pray,  has  the  thought 
ever  come  to  you  that  if  you  go  $n  refusing  offer 
after  offer,  you  will  be  an  old  maid?" 

"Very  likely  I  shall  be,  mamma." 

"An  old  maid,"  repeated  Mrs.  Doane,  im- 
pressively ;  "a  woman  without  a  husband,  without 
any  establishment  of  her  own.  Mrs.  Peabody's 
daughters  have  each  married  rich  men,  and  they 
had  n't  nearly  the  chance  you  have.  Laura  Welton 
is  pigeon-toed  and  has  red  hair,  but  her  cards  are 
out  for  engagement  to  Lawrence,  the  banker." 

"That  old  man!"  Margaret  spoke  scornfully. 
"That  old  man,  who  has  buried  two  wives  already. 
Laura  is  not  a  day  older  than  I  am.  To  think 
of  marrying  a  man  older  than  my  father!" 


28  SKOOT 

"She  will  have  a  magnificent  establishment," 
retorted  Mrs.  Doane.  "She  will  have  jewels,  silks, 
servants — what  could  she  wish  for  more?  What 
more  could  any  girl  in  her  senses  want?  It  is 
positively  shocking,  Margaret,  how  you  put  aside 
every  chance.  It  is  surely  time  you  were  making 
plans  for  yourself.  You  are  nearly  twenty-four. 
What  possible  objection  can  you  have  to  Mr. 
Merton?  With  his  money,  think  what  sort  of  an 
establishment  you  will  have !  You  would  outdis- 
tance these  other  girls  immeasurably.  He  is  edu- 
cated, belongs  to  one  of  the  most  aristocratic 
families  in  the  State,  as  well  as  the  most  select 
clubs,  and  is  recognized  everywhere  as  a  young 
man  of  great  fortune." 

"I  know  that  he  has  money,  or  will  have, 
mamma.  Perhaps  I  do  not  appreciate  money  be- 
cause I  have  always  been  surrounded  with  the 
luxuries  it  procures.  But  I  would  never  so  dese- 
crate God's  law  as  to  be  joined  to  a  man  for  his 
wealth.  I  know  when  a  girl  marries  a  rich  man 
she  is  envied  and  admired,  even  though  the  man 
she  marries  be  old  or  villainous  or  idiotic.  None 
of  these  things  matter  if  he  has  money,  but  every- 
body smiles  and  says,  'Didn't  she  do  well?'  This 


SKOOT  29 

fellow  Merton  is  a  shallow  fop,  with  no  more 
brains  in  his  head  than  in  his  feet.  Surely,  mamma, 
you  know  I  should  be  wretched  if  I  should  ac- 
cept him.  Let  us  not  talk  about  it  further.  Papa 
knows  how  I  feel  about  it,  for  I  have  already 
told  him." 

"Your  father  has  no  more  sense  than  you 
have,"  snapped  the  mother.  "Not  an  ounce  more. 
I  had  to  exert  myself  last  evening  to  make  up 
for  your  father's  indifference  to  him,  lest  his  feel- 
ings should  be  hurt." 

"Your  exertions  were  unnecessary,  mamma," 
returned  the  girl,  wearily.  "You  could  not  hurt 
his  feelings.  He  has  no  more  sensibility  than  a 
frog.  And  now,  shall  we  call  this  matter  settled 
between  us  for  all  time?" 

"If  you  will  be  so  ungrateful,  so  foolish,  so 
cruel !"  sobbed  her  mother,  bringing  to  light  a 
lace  handkerchief,  which  she  rubbed  against  her 
eyes.  "To  think  of  your  throwing  away  a  million ! 
To  think  of  the  compliments  and  congratulations 
I  should  have  received  on  marrying  you  so  well! 
How  every  one  would  have  envied  you  and — me !" 

Margaret  left  the  room,  and,  in  her  haste  to 
reach  her  own  apartment,  almost  ran  into  her 


30  SKOOT 

father,  who  was  in  the  hall,  making  ready  to  go 
out.  He  smiled  knowingly  as  Margaret  threw 
herself  into  his  arms. 

"Of  course  you  do  n't  want  the  young  puppy," 
he  said ;  "do  n't  be  bothered  about  it.  You  are 
father's  girl,  and  you  shall  stay  in  the  old  home 
until  you  go  of  your  own  will.  Your  mother  is 
dazzled  at  the  prospect  of  a  union  of  fortunes,  that 
is  all." 

He  kissed  her  and  went  cheerily  out.  Left 
to  herself,  the  forenoon  dragged  heavily.  Finally 
she  put  on  her  street  dress,  and  started  for  a 
walk  in  the  city  park. 

It  was  a  hazy,  cloudy  day,  with  just  a  suspicion 
of  rain  in  the  air.  She  seated  herself  on  a  settee 
under  one  of  the  trees,  listlessly  watching  the 
nursey  maids  with  their  white  caps  and  aprons, 
as  they  wheeled  their  tiresome  charges  back  and 
forth. 

An  electric  car  swung  rapidly  by  the  railing 
near  which  she  sat.  There  were  shop-girls,  clerks, 
business  men  going  to  lunch,  presumably;  and  a 
group  of  tattered  children,  precariously  kept  in 
place  by  a  lady  with  white  ties. 

"A    deaconess,"    murmured    Margaret;    "and 


SKOOT  31 

she  is  bringing  a  lot  of  those  horrid  tenement 
children  here.  O,"  as  she  got  a  glimpse  of  the 
face,  "I  do  believe  it  is  Maud  Percy.  She  has 
grown  pretty,  as  Molly  said.  I  wonder  if  she  will 
remember  me  at  all." 

She  stood  smiling  as  Miss  Percy  came  down 
the  walk,  keeping  her  flock  together. 

"Do  n't  pull  Mary's  hair  again,  Bob,"  she  said, 
"for  I  see  Mary's  brother  is  getting  ready  to  pull 
yours,  if  you  do.  Set  the  basket  down  there, 
Johnny  boy.  That  is  right.  Why,  Margaret, 
Margaret  Doane,  surely  this  is  you?" 

"This  is  I,  surely,"  responded  Margaret, 
laughingly.  She  took  the  outstretched  hand,  and 
was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  kiss  the  wholesome 
face.  "I  have  been  watching  you  ever  since  your 
car  rounded  the  corner.  How  are  you,  and  how 
do  you  enjoy  your  work?  I  never  saw  you  look 
so  well." 

"You  see,  I  have  lots  to  do,"  replied  Miss 
Percy,  seating  herself  beside  Margaret,  yet  not 
forgetful  to  keep  an  eye  on  her  young  charges. 
"Polly,"  to  a  very  little  girl,  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  a  very  big  baby,  "do  n't  drop  the  baby 
into  the  pond;  nor  into  the  lunch  basket,  either," 


32  SKOOT 

she  added,  as  Polly  made  a  violent  lunge  in  the 
opposite  direction.  "Put  him  down  here  in  the 
grass  where  he  can  roll,  and  I  will  give  him  a 
cooky  from  the  basket.  There,  he  '11  do  nicely. 
What  was  I  talking  about,  Margaret?  O,  yes,  I 
remember.  You  see  there  is  a  large  family  of  us 
in  the  Home,  but  there  is  more  than  enough 
work  for  all." 

"You  love  the  work,  I  am  sure,"  said  Margaret, 
wistfully.  "You  look  so  restful  and  contented. 
But  seeing  so  much  of  poverty  and  suffering  as 
you  must,  do  you  never  get  weary  and  blue  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Miss  Percy;  "yet  I  think  that 
many  things  conspire  to  make  us  blue.  The 
weather,  a  headache,  a  sense  of  helplessness  when 
we  see  a  great  need — all  of  these  things,  I  believe, 
have  a  bearing  upon  our  feelings  that  only  the 
heavenly  Father  can  rightly  estimate.  But  how- 
ever the  malady  is  caused,  I  have  an  exellent  recipe 
for  it.  When  I  feel  discouraged,  I  start  right  off  to 
find  some  one  who  is  a  shade  more  discouraged 
than  I.  You  remember  Miss  Havergal's  sweet 
lines : 

'  Seldom  can  a  heart  be  lonely, 
If  it  seek  a  lonelier  still?' 


SKOOT  33 

It  is  a  blessed  lesson  to  learn,  that  the  dear  Father 
gives  us  the  sunshine  while  we  are  trying  to  let 
the  light  into  some  darkened  heart.  And  then, 
you  know,  we  do  not  walk  by  sight.  Ours  is  the 
larger  privilege,  the  higher  path,  of  walking  by 
faith.  Sometimes  we  can  not  see  the  way,  or  can 
not  even  feel  the  clasp  of  the  Savior's  hand,  but 
may  say  to  our  souls,  'If  I  can  not  feel,  I  know  he  is 
here  by  my  side,  for  he  has  promised  never  to  leave 
nor  forsake  me.'  Perhaps  that  is  just  the  time 
when  we  may  honor  the  Master  by  rejoicing  in  his 
promised  presence,  rather  than  grieving  over  our 
own  feelings.  The  great  secret  is  not  to  look  at 
ourselves,  but  to  look  away  to  Jesus.  There! 
Now  I  have  preached  you  quite  a  little  sermon," 
she  said,  gayly. 

"I  needed  it,"  reponded  Margaret,  seriously. 
"Do  you  suppose,  Miss  Percy,  that  anybody  can 
be  really  happy  if  his  energies  are  not  centered 
on  some  line  of  work?  I  feel  the  need  of  a  pur- 
pose in  my  life." 

A  few  skillful,  sympathetic  questions,  candidly 
answered,  and  Miss  Percy  felt  that  she  under- 
stood just  where  the  girl  was,  spiritually.  She 
longed  to  help  her,  but,  feeling  that  she  could  not 
3 


34  SKOOT 

speak  freely  with  the  care  of  the  children  upon 
her,  decided  to  wait  until  another  day.  Besides, 
she  wanted  an  opportunity  for  prayer  with  this 
weak  disciple. 

"My  days  are  well  filled,"  she  said,  "but  I 
would  so  like  to  spend  an  hour  with  you  to- 
morrow. Can't  you  come  to  the  Home  some- 
time in  the  morning?  To-morrow  is  home-day 
for  me,  at  least  until  noon.  Plan  to  lunch  with 
us,  and  I  will  introduce  you  to  some  of  our 
workers.  Our  superintendent,  Miss  Lane,  is  a 
beautiful  woman,  made  so  by  suffering.  Some 
time  I  will  tell  you  her  story.  But  you  will 
come  ?" 

Margaret  gratefully  accepted  the  invitation  so 
cordially  given.  Consulting  her  watch,  she  found 
that  her  return  car  would  pass  in  a  couple  of 
minutes.  As  she  rose  to  go,  she  put  her  hand  in 
Miss  Percy's,  saying,  "I  have  felt  the  need  of  a 
strong  friend.  I  am  so  glad  to  know  you  again." 
And  walking  rapidly  to  the  crossing,  she  boarded 
the  car  with  a  lighter  heart  than  she  had  known 
that  day. 

But  the  morning  found  her  in  the  clutches  of 
a  nervous  headache,  and  unable  to  meet  her  ap- 


SKOOT  35 

pointment  at  the  Deaconess  Home.  So  she  sent 
a  message,  and  quietly  waited  for  the  pain  to 
spend  itself,  comforting  herself  with  the  thought 
that  to-morrow  was  Sunday,  and  she  could  hear 
and  greet  this  new  friend,  who  was  also  an  old 
one,  at  that  time. 

At  last  Sunday  evening  came.  The  great  audi- 
torium was  thronged.  The  soft  tones  of  the 
pipe-organ  trembled  upon  the  air.  As  Margaret 
entered  her  pew,  she  was  conscious  of  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman  wearing  the  white  ties,  seated 
beside  the  pastor. 

M Avenue  Church  took  a  special  in- 
terest in  the  speaker  of  the  evening,  for  she  was 
one  of  its  own  girls,  who  had  gone  away  to  fit  her- 
self for  the  more  active  Christian  work.  There 
were  those  present  who  remembered  her  as  a 
little  girl  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  had  solic- 
itously watched  her  development  into  a  strong 
Christian  character. 

When  she  arose  to  speak,  with  just  enough 
visible  embarrassment  to  add  to  her  attractive 
personality,  a  hush  settled  over  the  house.  She 
told  them  of  the  associations  and  duties  at  the 
training-school,  and  of  the  way  God  had  led  her 


36  SKOOT 

into  the  work.  She  took  them  through  many  a  dark 
alley  and  by-street,  into  reeking  chambers  where 
Death,  in  hideous  guise,  claimed  his  own.  She 
opened  the  doors  of  homes  of  extremest  deg- 
radation and  poverty,  and  revealed  to  them  the 
children  of  these  unfortunate  ones,  born  and  bred 
in  perpetual  vice  and  misery.  Then  she  took  them 
to  an  alley  of  their  own  city,  and  told  them  of 
Pansy — her  blindness,  her  polluted  environment, 
and  her  dead  mother's  hymn. 

As  Margaret  watched  the  power  of  the  speaker 
deepen  with  her  earnestness,  and  noted  the  sym- 
pathetic reponse  of  the  people,  her  heart  became 
conscious  of  its  hunger.  Ah,  it  must  be  beauti- 
ful to  walk  with  Jesus  every  day;  to  go  on  his 
errands  to  the  shunned  and  downcast;  to  speak 
of  him  with  burning  heart  and  fervent  lips,  as  did 
this  woman ! 

After  the  benediction,  Molly  Weston  made 
her  way  to  Margaret's  side.  The  dimples  were 
dancing  in  alluring  fashion.  Margaret  did  not 
fancy  the  appearance  of  the  young  man  with  her, 
but  Molly  wasted  no  time  in  introductions. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  struck  with  another  idea, 
Margie,"  she  laughed,  merrily.  "Why  can't  we  get 


SKOOT  37 

Miss  Percy  to  subjugate  the  formidable  step- 
mother— you  know  she  can  do  anything — and  let 
us  take  the  little  Pansy  into  the  woods  with  us?" 

"Your  last  idea  is  the  best  of  all,  Molly," 
said  Margaret,  approvingly.  "It  is  just  the  thing. 
I  know  Dora  will  like  it." 

Molly  clasped  her  hands  gleefully.  "I  just 
want  to  hug  the  poor  little  thing,"  she  said.  "I 
do  n't  know  what  we  can  do  about  clothes.  Of 
course  the  child  has  nothing  fit  to  wear."  Then 
to  her  mind  came  a  sudden  remembrance  of  a 
certain  drawer  in  her  mother's  room,  wherein  lay 
daintily-embroidered  frocks  and  underclothing, 
yellowing  from  disuse.  They  had  belonged  to  the 
little  sister,  a  child  of  about  Pansy's  age,  who 
had  slipped  away  from  them  three  years  before. 

"I  will  talk  with  mamma,"  she  said.  "If  she 
could  only  feel  that  the  little  garments  would 
help  some  other  little  one,  I  think  she  would  let 
us  have  them  for  Pansy.  Poor  mamma!  How 
many  tears  have  fallen  in  that  drawer!"  Then 
she  added,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "I  will  see  you 
in  the  morning,  Margie.  Good-night." 

Miss  Percy  readily  volunteered  the  service  de- 
sired, and,  by  great  deftness,  succeeded  in  secur- 


38  SKOOT 

ing  the  stepmother's  permission  to  lend  Pansy 
for  a  while.  She  led  the  child  away  to  a  near 
street,  where  they  took  a  car  for  the  Home. 

Pansy's  hand  lay  still  in  that  of  the  dea- 
coness. What  a  little  hand  it  was,  Miss  Percy 
thought,  so  thin,  so  helpless,  so  trustful ! 

There  was  a  young  man  in  the  car,  and  the 
only  available  seat  for  the  blind  child  was  beside 
him.  He  was  undersized,  with  a  squint  and  eye- 
glass, and  had  a  peculiar  mark,  like  a  birthmark, 
upon  his  face.  He  seemed  very  restless,  as  if 
fearing  contamination  from  the  unconscious 
child  of  the  tenements.  Finally,  after  a  few  un- 
easy turns,  he  went  outside  to  the  platform.  Miss 
Percy  looked  after  him,  amused  at  the  feeling  he 
had  manifested;  but  Pansy  still  clasped  the  hand 
of  her  friend,  and  was  unconscious  of  it  all. 


IN  the  room  which  Miss  Percy  occupied  with 
another  deaconess,  a  pretty  confusion  of  lit- 
tle girl's  belongings  lay  heaped  on  the  bed. 
Daintily-fashioned  garments  of  rose-color  and 
blue,  a  sheer  white  Swiss  with  silk  sash,  a  wide  hat 
with  mull  ties  and  tiny  rosebuds — all  these,  and 
much  besides,  had  been  sent  from  the  drawer 
long  closed  in  Molly's  home. 

If  Mrs.  Weston  had  taken  a  secret  melan- 
choly satisfaction  in  cherishing  the  garments  her 
little  one  had  worn,  she  now  found  a  larger  and 
truer  comfort  in  thus  turning  them  to  a  better  pur- 
pose. To  seal  sorrow  in  the  heart,  and  there 
cherish  it,  is  human;  it  will  inevitably  blast  and 
wither  the  life  like  an  imprisoned  sun.  To  open 
the  soul  in  service,  is  to  radiate  sympathy  to  others 

39 


40  SKOOT 

who  suffer,  and  is  divine.  The  most  absolute  sor- 
row is  not  selfish. 

For  some  time  Molly  had  been  walking  im- 
patiently back  and  forth.  In  spite  of  the  placid 
assurance  of  the  white-faced  clock  on  the  mantel, 
and  the  testimony  of  the  watch  at  her  belt,  she 
was  sure  that  the  car  was  late.  Just  as  she  was 
expressing  her  convictions  for  at  least  the  twen- 
tieth time,  there  was  the  clanging  of  the  car  bell, 
followed  by  the  sound  of  the  latch  key  in  the  door 
below.  In  another  moment  Miss  Percy  entered, 
leading  Pansy  by  the  hand. 

Molly's  warm  heart  went  out  impulsively  to 
the  little  unfortunate.  She  gathered  Pansy  in 
her  arms,  while  the  tears  filled  her  eyes.  The 
child  listened  intently  to  the  tones  of  her  voice, 
as  though  she  would  judge  of  her  new  friend  in 
that  way,  and  passed  her  hand  lightly  over  her 
face.  Then,  as  if  satisfied,  she  quietly  put  her  arm 
around  Molly's  neck,  and,  resting  her  head 
against  her  shoulder,  sat  thus  contented,  with  no 
further  demonstration. 

A  bath  awaited  the  child  in  the  next  room,  and 
soon  the  pitiful,  thin  little  body  was  stripped  of  its 
coarse  clothing.  There  were  marks  of  abuse  every- 


SKOOT  41 

where,  and  the  soft  hair  was  almost  hopelessly 
neglected  and  tangled.  But  by  much  patience, 
the  brown  curls  at  last  were  parted,  and  knotted 
on  either  side  with  bright  ribbon. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  was  "finished," 
as  Molly  expressed  it.  But  when  she  was  dressed 
at  last,  one  might  have  looked  long  upon  her 
without  recognizing  the  shrinking,  wretched, 
cowering  child  of  Pinch  Alley.  Molly  danced 
about  her,  clapping  her  hands  in  delight. 

"If  she  could  only  see  the  pretty  things  her- 
self," she  said.  "That  floating  white  dress  makes 
her  look  like  a  spirit-child  in  a  cloud.  Her  face  is 
heavenly  as  an  angel.  O  Miss  Percy !"  she  stopped 
with  a  sudden  choking  in  her  voice,  "something 
must  be  done.  She  must  not  go  back  to  that 
dreadful  alley." 

Just  then  there  was  a  violent  clattering  and 
confusion  down  stairs,  as  though  the  building  had 
been  charged  from  without  with  a  battering-ram. 
A  loud,  angry  voice  was  heard  above  the  con- 
fusion. Miss  Percy  and  Molly  ran  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs  where  they  could  look  down. 

One  of  the  deaconesses  was  holding  the  hall 
door  open.  Indeed,  she  could  not  shut  it,  for  a 


42  SKOOT 

boy  of  ten  or  a  dozen  years,  very  much  gone  to 
arms  and  legs,  very  dirty  and  very  much  excited, 
interposed  his  thin  body  between  the  door  and 
casing. 

"No,  I  won't  go,"  he  shouted,  savagely,  "un- 
til I  've  found  her,  an'  found  out  what  yer  goin' 
to  do  with  her.  One  of  them  there  white-bowed 
women  took  her  off  when  I  was  out  shinin'." 

"Shining?"  repeated  the  deaconess,  interrog- 
atively, and  in  effort  to  save  time.  "Shining? 
Shining  what?" 

"Huffs,"  said  the  boy ;  "feet,  gent's  shoes,  that 
is,  of  course ;  and  when  I  got  back,  No.  2 — that 's 
her  stepmother — said  she  'd  shet  her  up ;  but  some 
of  the  fellers  in  the  alley  said  that  one  o'  them 
there  white-bowed  women  had  tooken  Pansy  off." 

"It 's  Skoot,"  murmured  Miss  Percy,  as  she 
ran  swiftly  down  the  stairs.  "It  is  all  right,"  she 
smiled  to  the  bewildered  deaconess  at  the  door. 
"I  know  this  boy.  Come  right  up,  Skoot.  You 
shall  see  Pansy.  She  i3  going  out  in  the  country 
with  some  kind  ladies,  and  we  are  going  to  try 
to  find  her  another  home.  Pansy  has  talked  much 
of  you,  and  we  tried  to  find  you  that  she  might 
say  good-bye  before  we  left  the  alley." 


SKOOT  43 

All  this  time  she  was  leading  him  up  the  stairs, 
and  along  the  upper  hall,  where  several  doors 
stood  open.  The  appointments  of  the  Home  were 
plain  enough,  but  it  looked  like  fairyland  to  Skoot. 
By  the  time  they  reached  Miss  Percy's  door,  he 
was  speechless. 

Such  a  pretty  place,  with  a  carpet  and  a  white 
bed !  Skoot  had  never  before  seen  a  bed  like  this. 
There  was  a  little  girl  in  the  alley  who  had  spent 
several  weeks  in  the  hospital,  and  she  had  cried 
at  leaving  her  white  bed,  and  had  described  it 
many  times  since  to  the  alley  children.  Skoot 
observed  a  strange  lady  arranging  a  rainbow- 
tinted  mass  of  pretty  clothing,  and  a  little  girl,  in 
a  white  dress,  sat  in  a  low  rocker  by  the  window. 

Skoot's  quick  eye  took  her  in  with  the  rest  of 
the  room,  and  then  he  turned  indignantly  on  Miss 
Percy : 

"Do  n't  try  to  fool  me,"  he  broke  out  angrily, 
"'cause  if  Pansy  is  in  this  here  house,  I  'm  goin' 
to  find  her,  if  I  have  to  smash  into  every  one  o' 
them  there  fine  rooms,  I  will."  And  Skoot  doubled 
his  grimy  fists,  and  looked  very  disagreeable  in- 
deed. 

Miss  Percy  stepped  to  the  rocking-chair,  and 


44  SKOOT 

lightly  touched  Pansy's  arm.  "Pansy,"  she  said, 
gently,  "Skoot  is  here." 

But  the  child  had  almost  thrown  herself  in  the 
direction  of  Skoot's  voice.  She  clasped  her  hands 
about  his  neck,  and  whispered  many  endearing 
words. 

"Dear,  kind,  good  Skoot.  I  did  want  to  see 
you  before  I  went  away  with  the  kind  lady.  We 
went  all  over  the  alley,  but  we  could  n't  find  you. 
Why  do  n't  you  speak  to  me,  Skoot  ?" 

"Gee!"  said  the  boy,  coming  out  of  his  as- 
tonishment much  as  he  would  a  plunge  in  cold 
water.  "Gee!  ain't  yer  fixed,  though,  little  one? 
No  2  herself  would  n't  know  yer.  Yer  look  like 
them  there  pictures  of  angels  in  the  mission,"  he 
went  on,  in  a  reverent  voice.  "There !  Do  n't 
touch  me.  Yer  '11  get  all  dirty,"  as  a  new  thought 
struck  him. 

"O,  but  I  want  to  touch  you,  Skoot,  because 
I  can't  see  you,  you  know.  «Sit  down  here  with  me, 
and  tell  me  everything.  O,  I  wish  you  could  go 
with  us  to  the  beautiful  place  the  ladies  have  told 
me  about." 

Molly  had  been  looking  on  with  amazement, 
as  well  as  interest.  Now  she  spoke  to  Skoot. 


SKOOT  45 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"Didn't  say,"  replied  the  boy,  laconically. 

"O,  I  mean  what  is  it,  anyway?"  she  persisted. 

It  was  impossible  to  withstand  Molly.  Skoot 
regarded  her  half  curiously,  half  approvingly,  for 
a  full  minute  before  he  again  spoke : 

"Skoot,"  he  said,  at  last. 

The  irrepressible  Molly  giggled.  "Skoot," 
she  repeated.  "That  is  a  funny  name." 

"There  's  them  as  is  funnier,"  rejoined  Skoot, 
loftily.  "There 's  Mutton  and  Squeaky  and 
Meachy  and  Noodles  and  Muggins,  and  Rags  an' 
Tatters — them  's  the  twins — they  're  all  kids  in  our 
alley." 

Here  Miss  Percy  drew  Molly  from  the  room, 
leaving  the  two  children  together. 

"She  '11  get  dreadful  mussed  up,"  said  Molly, 
outside ;  "but  we  do  n't  care,  do  we  ?  Did  you 
ever  see  such  a  young  savage?  Who  is  he — her 
brother?  I  didn't  know  she  had  one." 

"Not  her  brother,  only  an  unfortunate  waif, 
like  herself,"  answered  Miss  Percy.  "He  is  known 
as  a  hard  boy.  He  kicks  around  the  streets,  black- 
ing boots  and  doing  errands;  he  swears  like  a 


46  SKOOT 

pirate,  and  fights  like  a  highwayman;  he  plays 
cards,  smokes  cigar  stumps  whenever  he  can  find 
them,  and-  does  everything  you  would  expect  of 
him  but  one — he  won't  drink.  Pansy  told  me  his 
father  got  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl,  and  Skoot 
won't  even  go  to  the  saloons  to  get  beer  for  his 
brother,  with  whom  he  lives.  In  short,  he  is  a 
special  object  of  care  to  the  police,  the  terror  of 
the  alley,  and  Pansy's  most  valiant  friend  and 
protector.  He  has  taken  many  a  beating  for  her. 
She  has  told  me  so  much  about  him  that  I  am 
almost  as  deeply  interested  in  him  as  in  her." 

"There  is  a  strong  affection  between  them," 
said  Molly.  "I  verily  believe  he  would  have  come 
up  the  stairs  over  the  deaconess  at  the  door. 
What  a  perfect  young  savage !  He  makes  me 
feel  creepy  all  over — just  as  if  I  wanted  to  wash 
my  hands.  But  did  you  say  that  Dora  and  Mar- 
garet were  coming  here  to-morrow  morning,  and 
we  were  all  to  start  from  here?" 

"That  is  the  plan,  and,  dear  Molly,"  laying  a 
light  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  and  looking 
earnestly  into  her  face,  "I  have  been  praying  that 
it  may  be  a  blessed  time  to  us  all,  profitable  in 
every  way.  Perhaps  there  are  lessons  to  learn 


SKOOT  47 

at  Idlewood  that  the  Master  can  best  teach  us 
when  we  turn  aside  to  rest.  He  said  to  his  dis- 
ciples, 'Come  ye  yourselves  apart,  and  rest  a 
while.'  Sometimes,  in  the  rush  of  daily  work,  we 
are  drawn  unconsciously  into  follies  or  dangerous 
friendships." 

"Dangerous  friendships!"  Molly's  cheeks 
flamed  as  she  thought  of  Jack  Rivers,  her  office 
acquaintance.  Had  Miss  Percy  ever  seen  them  to- 
gether she  wondered  ?  Well — what  then  ?  He  was 
fine  looking,  well-dressed,  with  polished  society 
ways.  Yet  in  her  heart  Molly  knew  that  he  was 
fond  of  the  theater,  dance,  card-table,  and  wine. 
Was  his  a  "dangerous  friendship?" 

At  noon  of  that  same  day,  Rivers  ran  lightly 
down  the  steps  of  the  building  where  he  clerked, 
almost  upsetting  Guy  Merton,  whose  feet  at  the 
best  never  seemed  to  have  a  very  strong  hold  upon 
the  pavement.  Merton's  cane  was  knocked  from 
his  hand,  and  his  eye-glass  dangled  distractedly 
from  its  chain.  He  looked  up  angrily  into  the 
face  of  the  man  who  had  so  seriously  interfered 
with  his  dignity. 

"Aw,  Rivers,  is  it  you?  Can't  you  see  a  fellow 
a  yard  ahead  of  you  ?  What 's  your  hurry  ?" 


48  SKOOT 

Rivers  laughed  as  they  strolled  along  together. 
"I  was  thinking  of  to-night,"  he  said,  gayly.  "I  'm 
going  to  take  the  prettiest  little  girl  to  the  theater. 
Works  in  our  office." 

That  afternoon  Dora  and  Margaret  came  to 
the  Home  in  a  delightful  flutter  of  preparation 
for  the  morrow.  They  found  Miss  Percy  dressed 
to  go  out.  Like  Molly,  their  quick  sympathies 
went  out  to  the  unfortunate  child. 

"She  is  not  the  only  one  whose  sufferings  would 
touch  your  hearts,"  said  Miss  Percy,  "if  you  were 
only  brought  face  to  face  with  them.  This  is  my 
calling  afternoon.  Perhaps  you  girls  would  like 
to  go  with  me?  You  would  get  a  better  under- 
standing of  'how  the  other  half  lives'  than  all  the 
literature  in  the  country  can  give." 

Molly  was  too  taken  up  with  Pansy  to  leave 
her,  and  chose  rather  to  spend  the  hot  hours  in 
the  quiet  room  with  her.  New  thoughts  were 
awakening  in  her  mind,  aroused  either  by  Miss 
Percy's  words  or  Pansy's  spiritual  face,  she  could 
not  tell  which.  She  thought  seriously  of  canceling 
her  evening  engagement.  She  sat  studying 
Pansy's  face,  realizing  dimly  that  heavenly  things 
seemed  nearer  in  her  presence. 


SKOOT  49 

Skoot  had  departed,  fully  reconciled  to  the 
loss  of  Pansy  for  a  while.  His  mind  was  still  in  a 
muddle  regarding  her  transformation. 

"If  I  wuz  as  good  a  friend  to  Pansy  as  I  allus 
thought  I  wuz,"  he  muttered,  as  he  went  down  the 
street  swinging  his  bootblack  kit,  "I  'd  be  mighty 
glad  fur  her  to  get  away  from  Pinch  Alley  alto- 
gether. An'  so  I  would  be,  only  I  'd  like  to  have 
her  somewheres  where  I  could  see  her  once  in  a 
while." 

Then  he  looked  down  scornfully  at  his  rags  and 
dirt.  "Poh,  Skoot  Higgins,"  he  ejaculated,  in 
contemptuous  self-apostrophe,  "who  do  yer  s'pose 
would  let  you  inter  their  house  ?  You  've  got  a  bad 
record,  Skoot,  an'  yer  look  it.  Look  like  it  might 
be  the  smallpox,  or  the  malary,  or  sich.  Ah ! 
There  's  two  gents  as  look  like  they  might  like  a 
shine."  He  walked  up  to  Merton  and  Rivers,  who 
had  just  sauntered  round  a  corner. 

"Shine,  sir?"  he  said,  looking  first  in  one  face, 
then  the  other.  "Shine?" 

Merton  submitted  languidly,  and  watched 
Skoot  curiously  as  he  began. 

"What  a  bony  hoodlum,  Rivers,"  he  com- 
mented. "The  South  Sea  cannibals  would  go 
4 


50  SKOOT 

hungry  if  they  had  to  dine  off  of  him.  Upon  my 
word,"  slowly  raising  his  eyeglass,  "I  believe  it  is 
some  sort  of  an  electricized  skeleton !" 

Skoot  glanced  keenly  at  Merton  as  he  pocketed 
his  nickel,  and  turned  away.  "What  an  ugly  mouth 
that  feller's  got!"  he  thought.  "Looks  like  he 
could  bite  anybody  with  them  there  white  teeth 
of  his  'n.  Got  a  scar  on  his  face,  too." 


IT  was  yet  early  in  the  afternoon  when  Miss 
Percy  and  the  two  girls  started  out.  After 
leaving  the  car,  they  walked  what  seemed  an 
interminable  distance  through  a  close,  dirty  sec- 
tion of  the  city.  The  streets  were  narrow,  the 
houses  tall,  and  had  the  appearance  of  being 
propped  against  each  other  as  if  to  prevent  their 
toppling  over.  A  group  of  cheaply-dressed  girls 
were  standing  on  a  corner  jesting  noisily  with  a 
young  fellow  who  had  just  stepped  out  of  a  saloon, 
wiping  his  mouth  with  his  hand.  Our  girls  dis- 
liked to  pass  them,  fearing  some  rough  or  sneer- 
ing remark ;  but  they  were  surprised  at  seeing 
the  entire  group  move  quietly  aside,  allowing  them 
to  pass  without  comment. 

Si 


52  SKOOT 

"It  is  always  so,"  said  Miss  Percy.  "The  white 
ties  are  our  best  protection  in  this  district.  The 
deaconesses  pass  in  and  out  without  insult." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  a  tall  frame 
building,  larger  than  most  of  the  others.  It  looked 
very  black  and  rickety. 

"There  are  several  calls  that  we  must  make 
here,"  said  Miss  Percy.  "The  old  building  was 
formerly  used  for  offices,  but  being  pronounced 
unsafe,  the  rooms  were  rented  out  to  very  poor 
people  for  a  pittance.  The  stairs  are  broken  away 
in  places,  and  the  old  shell  trembles  in  evfery  wind ; 
but  of  course  it  is  to  the  owner's  profit  to  rent 
it  rather  than  have  it  pulled  down,  as  it  should  be. 
There  are  twenty  families  in  this  house.  We  can 
not  call  on  them  all,  but  we  will  see  as  many  as 
possible." 

The  girls  restrained  a  natural  inclination  to 
turn  back,  and  followed  their  leader  into  a  nar- 
row, din'gy  hall,  very  black  and  smoky.  Many 
doors  opened  from  either  side.  At  one  of  these 
Miss  Percy  rapped  lightly,  and,  in  response  to  a 
hoarse  "Come  in,"  they  entered. 

There  was  only  one  window,  and  that  broken 
and  wretchedly  dirty.  The  wall-paper,  faded  so 


SKOOT  53 

as  to  render  its  pattern  indiscernible,  was  festooned 
with  cobwebs  and  hung  in  shreds.  Dora  almost 
shrieked  as  a  great  gray  rat  scurried  across  her 
feet  and  into  a  hole  in  the  decayed  floor.  A 
miserable  cot,  with  no  covers  but  a  foul  quilt, 
stood  in  the  corner,  and  on  this  lay  a  creature, 
hardly  to  be  called  human,  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth. 
Two  yellow  fangs  protruded  from  the  shrunken 
gums,  and  the  wrinkled  lips  leered  horribly.  Hard, 
wicked  lines  had  stamped  themselves  on  the  face, 
which  the  girls  were  horrified  to  find  was  that 
of  a  woman. 

"Well,  how  are  you  to-day,  Grandmother  ?"  in- 
quired Miss  Percy,  advancing  toward  the  bed. 

An  unintelligible  growl  issued  from  the 
woman's  lips.  "Ho!  ye  are  back  again,  are  yer? 
Did  n't  I  tell  yer  I  wanted  none  o'  yer  gapin'  an' 
yappin'  here?" 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Grand- 
mother ?  Would  n't  you  like  me  to  fix  your  bed, 
or  get  you  some  fresh  water?" 

"Water,  my  dear,  is  bad  fur  the  stummik,  very 
bad,"  she  answered,  with  a  hideous  leer  and  an 
entire  change  of  tone.  "But  in  the  coobard,  my 
dear,  is  a  pail,  an'  just  'round  the  corner  is  the 


54  SKOOT 

beer-shop,  an'  in  yer  purty  purse,  my  dear,  sure 
there  's  a  nickel.  Think  on  what  ye  could  be  doin' 
for  a  poor  lone  old  woman,  as  has  been  a  widdy 
for  fifteen  years,  an'  whose  stummik  is  pizened 
entirely  wid  water." 

"No,  Grandmother,  you  know  I  will  not  get 
you  beer.  Do  n't  coax  me  to  every  time  I  come. 
Have  n't  they  told  you  that  you  will  dre  soon  ? 
How  will  it  be  with  your  soul  when  you  give  an 
account  of  your  life  ?  Won't  you  ask  Jesus  to  for- 
give your  sins  and  cleanse  your  soul  before  it  is 
too  late  ?" 

The  creature  swore  a  horrible  oath,  and  tore 
at  the  quilt,  shrieking  and  foaming.  "Do  n't  you 
come  here  with  yer  lyin'  face,"  she  screamed. 
"Who's  goin'  to  die?  I  ain't — I  ain't!  I  won't 
die!  I  won't!" 

"Let  us  go  now,  girls,"  said  Miss  Percy;  "but 
1  '11  be  coming  again  soon,  Grandmother,  and  re- 
member I  'm  praying  for  you  every  day." 

Of  such  compassion  is  ever  the  Christ  contact 
with  the  fallen  and  shunned  of  earth. 

Both  Dora  and  Margaret  were  very  pale.  They 
had  never  looked  on  such  as  this  before. 


SKOOT  55 

Across  the  passage  they  entered  another  room, 
in  size  and  shape  the  counterpart  of  the  othei. 
Here  there  was  no  bed,  only  a  pile  of  straw  and 
old  clothing,  on  which  lay  a  man  of  thirty  or  there- 
abouts, wasted  almost  to  the  bone.  He  raised 
himself,  coughing  painfully. 

"You  've  been  a  long — while — comin',5'  he 
gasped ;  "it 's  close  to-day ;  seems  like  I — can't 
get — my — breath." 

"Take  this,"  said  Miss  Percy,  producing  a  flask 
and  glass  from  her  satchel.  Tenderly  raising  the 
sick  man,  she  held  the  stimulant  to  his  white  lips. 
"There !  now  you  will  feel  better,"  she  said,  with 
evident  sympathy.  "Is  the  pain  pretty  bad  to- 
day?" 

"Pretty  bad — here,"  indicating  a  spot  near  the 
collar-bone.  "I  Ve  been  a-dreamin'  of  the  old 
farm,  an'  the  way  the  wind  is  a-blowin'  across  the 
fields.  But  I  shall  never  see  it  again,  never." 

"But  there  is  a  better  country,  Jim,  you  know. 
Is  your  hope  bright  to-day?  Do  you  feel  Jesus 
with  you?" 

"That 's  all  the — comfort — there  is.  I  Ve  been 
a  wild  boy — and  broke — my  mother's  heart.  She 


56  SKOOT 

went  to — heaven — praying  for  me.  But  Jesus  is — 
good,  merciful.  Sometimes  I  can  almost — see 
him,  he  comes  so  near." 

"We  still  want  you  to  go  to  the  hospital,  Jim," 
said  Miss  Percy.  "There  you  can  be  taken  care 

of  so  much  better.  The  M Avenue  League 

want  to  bear  your  expenses,  and  I  know  you  would 
be  so  comfortable." 

But  the  man  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,  I 
could  n't  leave  Mary.  She  works  out  all  day,  and 
nurses — me  nights.  I  could  n't  stand  it — not  to 
have  Mary — comin'  in;  since  the  little  feller  died, 
she  clings  to  me — more  than  ever.  We  '11  keep 
together — as  long  as  we  can." 

"Then  at  least  you  will  let  the  League  send 
you  a  bed,  with  covers  and  pillows,"  urged  the 
deaconess.  "I  have  told  them  about  you  and  your 
wife,  and  I  think  they  will  find  some  other  work 
for  her,  and  find  you  another  home." 

"They  are  very  kind,"  said  the  sick  man.  "If 
only  they  would  look  out  for  Mary  after  I  'm  gone, 
and  help — her — some.  We  can't  afford  to  pay — 
higher  rent,  an'  what  the  wife  earns  will  hardly 
buy  food  and  medicine/' 

"She  is  a  true  wife,"  said  Miss  Percy,  warmly. 


SKOOT  57 

"We  will  try  to  help  her  right  away.  She  does  n't 
look  strong  enough  to  go  out  washing  every  day. 
Now  we  must  go;  but  I  will  leave  this  cordial 
right  here  where  you  can  reach  it.  And  I  will 
leave  this  paper,  too.  You  might  like  to  read  a 
little  when  you  feel  better.  Now  shall  we  have  a 
prescription  from  the  Great  Physician,  and  a  word 
of  prayer  together?" 

She  procured  a  Bible,  and  instinctively  turned 
to  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  John,  that  inex- 
haustible fountain  of  comfort  to  so  many  thirsty 
souls.  Both  girls  knelt  as  she  prayed,  earnestly 
and  confidently,  for  this  one  who  was  soon  to 
stand  before  his  God. 

"What  wretchedness  !"  whispered  Dora,  as  they 
again  passed  into  the  hall.  "And  yet  love  can  keep 
alive  in  such  a  place  as  this !  He  must  love  his 
wife,  to  speak  of  her  as  he  did.  There  is  a  look 
on  his  face,  in  spite  of  everything,  that  is  n't  all 
unhappiness." 

"I  never  supposed  poor  people  could  be  happy 
at  all,"  said  Margaret. 

"O  yes,  every  one  may  be  happy,"  rejoined 
Miss  Percy.  "God  intended  that  to  be  our  normal 
condition,  both  here  and  eternally.  But  the  spring 


58  SKOOT 

of  happiness  must  be  from  within,  not  without,  as 
we  imagine.  He  knows  he  is  going  to  die,  but 
that  does  not  rob  him  of  his  Christian  joy.  You 
know 

'Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are.' 

But  here  is  a  door  we  must  enter." 

The  door  was  tightly  shut,  and  there  was  no 
response  to  their  rap.  There  was  a  sound  within 
of  incessant  moaning,  now  and  then  rising  sharply 
into  a  wail,  and  then  again  sinking  away  into  a 
deep  groan. 

Pushing  open  the  door,  they  entered.  A  woman 
was  pacing  to  and  fro,  her  hands  tightly  clasped 
before  her.  She  took  no  notice  whatever  of  their 
entrance.  A  rude  box  lay  on  the  floor,  half  cov- 
ered with  a  sheet.  A  glance  into  it  disclosed  the 
features  of  a  dead  infant,  coarsely  garbed  for  its 
last  sleep. 

The  deaconess  gently  touched  the  mother's 
shoulder.  "The  little  one  is  safe  in  heaven,"  she 
said,  tenderly,  "and  will  never  know  hunger  or 
cold  or  trouble.  It  is  one  of  the  Shepherd's  little 
lambs,  and  is  waiting  in  his  arms  for  you." 

But  the  poor  mother  could  only  point  wildly 


SKOOT  59 

at  the  box.  Like  many  another  who  weeps,  she 
could  not  look  beyond  the  grave  to  the  Everlast- 
ing Arms. 

Miss  Percy  spoke  gentle  words,  words  that 
might  have  fallen  on  the  sore  heart  like  healing  on 
a  wound ;  but  the  heart  was  closed,  the  ears  were 
deaf.  She  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  comprehend 
in  the  least.  Miss  Percy  could  only  commit  her 
to  the  Great  Comforter.  As  they  went  out,  she 
again  resumed  her  walking  and  moaning. 

"Only  Jesus  can  help  her,  and  she  will  not  let 
him,"  said  Miss  Percy,  sadly.  "We  can  only  pray 
for  her  by  ourselves." 

"One  would  almost  think  that  a  mother  would 
be  grateful  to  have  her  child  taken  out  of  such 
a  wretched  place,"  said  Dora,  thoughtfully. 

"Ah,  but  you  do  not  know  a  mother's  heart," 
answered  the  deaconess.  "Of  course,  there  are 
mothers  who  beat  and  abuse  their  children;  but 
sometimes  the  child  is  the  only  bright  spot  in  the 
lives  of  these  women.  A  mother's  heart  can  break 
in  these  tenements  as  elsewhere.  If  we  could  only 
help  them  to  be  Christians!  We  will  make  only 
one  more  call  here,  and  that  will  be  up  four  flights." 

They  were  bidden  "Come  in,"  and  entered  a 


60  SKOOT 

room  like  the  others,  yet  how  unlike!  The  walls 
and  floor  were  spotless,  a  bright  geranium 
bloomed  in  the  clear  window.  The  hearth  was 
swept,  and  the  bed  neatly  made. 

A  queer  little  woman  was  pasting  heels  at  a 
table.  She  was  very  small,  almost  a  dwarf.  As 
she  rose  to  greet  her  callers,  she  was  seen  to  be 
a  cripple,  with  one  limb  painfully  shorter  than  the 
other.  She  had  little,  wrinkled  hands  and  bright 
blue  eyes,  smiling  pleasantly  under  her  snow-white 
hair.  She  greeted  her  visitors  courteously,  with 
an  air  of  much  refinement,  and  invited  them  to  be 
seated. 

"If  the  young  ladies  will  sit  on  the  bed,"  she 
explained,  "and  the  lady  have  the  chair.  I  do  not 
often  have  as  many  callers.  It  puzzles  a  body  to 
know  just  what  to  do ;  but  you  are  very  welcome, 
nevertheless." 

"And  how  are  you  to-day,  Mrs.  Walsh,  and 
how  is  your  daughter?"  inquired  Miss  Percy. 

"Alice  gets  tired  in  the  shop,  and  I  sometimes 
get  tired  at  home,"  said  the  old  lady ;  "but  we  have 
many  pleasant  hours  together.  Alice  is  a  good 
girl,  and  between  us  we  can  keep  the  wolf  away. 
Sometimes  I  think  of  my  poor  hip,  so  badly 


SKOOT  61 

twisted  and  out  of  place,  and  I  just  wonder  what 
the  Lord  can  expect  of  me  with  such  an  afflic- 
tion. Just  to  get  strength  of  soul  to  bear  it,  I 
suppose.  Sometimes  I  ask  what  I  shall  do  with 
this  trouble,  this  burden  laid  in  my  path.  And 
something  in  my  soul  says,  'Lift  it  and  carry  it ; 
it  will  bring  you  blessing.'  You  will  read  and  pray 
before  you  go?" 

Miss  Percy  turned  the  marked  pages  of  the 
Bible  handed  her,  reading  here  and  there.  "I  will 
not  leave  you  comfortless  ;"  "I  will  never  leave  thee 
nor  forsake  thee ;"  "My  grace  is  sufficient  for 
thee;"  "As  thy  day  thy  strength  shall  be;"  and 
other  like  precious  words.  Then  she  prayed,  and 
the  Spirit  filled  the  room.  Soon  after,  the  visitors 
left,  with  a  promise  to  come  again  soon. 

Out  into  the  street  again,  through  cross- 
streets  and  alleys,  and  the  deaconess  knocked  at 
the  door  of  a  little,  tumble-down  house,  where, 
despite  the  heat,  the  shutters  were  closely  drawn. 
Rank  weeds  grew  around  the  door,  and  the  place 
had  the  appearance  of  being  uninhabited. 

As  Miss  Percy  knocked,  there  was  a  sound  of 
hurried  movement  within,  together  with  a  scraping 
noise,  as  of  a  box  or  something  heavy  drawn 


62  SKOOT 

across  the  floor.  After  a  little  while  the  door  was 
opened  cautiously,  just  a  very  few  inches,  show- 
ing the  weazened  features  of  a  little,  yellow, 
shrunken  old  man. 

"It 's  you,  is  it  ?"  peering  sharply  around  the 
corner  with  his  wolfish  eyes.  "Who  are  these  with 
you?  Ladies,  young  ladies!  This  day  this  house 
is  honored.  The  room  is  very  small  and  poor, 
my  dears."  With  that  he  opened  the  door  barely 
wide  enough  to  allow  them  to  enter  singly.  "Very 
small  and  poor,  and  one  of  you  must  sit  on  this 
box.  There  's  not  much  furnishing.  I  am  very 
poor,  my  dears,  very  poor." 

"Have  you  had  any  food  to-day?"  demanded 
the  deaconess,  so  sharply  that  both  the  girls  looked 
at  her  in  astonishment.  "Have  you  eaten  any- 
thing strengthening  since  I  was  here  last  week?" 

The  old  man  wriggled  horribly,  and  began  to 
whine  dolorously. 

"Bread  costs  so  much,  my  dear,"  he  whim- 
pered; "and  meat — O,  poor  folks  can  not  buy 
meat !  Why,  ever  so  small  a  piece,  not  over  sweet, 
they  ask  me  ten  cents  for — ten  cents.!  They  try 
to  steal  from  the  old  man  because  he  is  so  poor, 
too  poor  to  buy;"  and  he  rubbed  his  skeleton 


SKOOT  63 

hands  together,  and  then  against  his  mouth,  as  if 
they  were  some  unfamiliar  food,  and  he  a  cannibal, 
tasting  them. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Miss  Percy,  more  sharply 
than  before.  "Get  yourself  something  to  eat,  open 
your  shutters,  and  your  Bible,  too,  and  let  some 
light  into  your  dark  house  and  darker  heart.  You 
will  die  here  alone  some  time." 

"But  I  am  so  poor,"  he  whined,  still  writhing 
hideously.  "When  an  old  man  is  so  poor,  my 
dear—" 

"We  must  go  now,"  interrupted  Miss  Percy, 
rising.  "I  hoped  to  find  you  more  sensible  to-day, 
after  being  so  sick  for  want  of  food.  See!  I  will 
leave  you  this  fruit,  and  this  bundle  of  papers." 

"How  abrupt  you  were !"  said  Dora,  when  they 
were  once  again  in  the  street.  "I  would  hardly 
have  known  it  was  you,  speaking  so  harshly.  And 
the  old  man  is  so  wretchedly  poor,  too !" 

"Poor?  yes,  he  is  poor — poor  with  the  utmost 
destitution  of  soul,"  answered  Miss  Percy.  "But 
you  must  learn  to  bestow  your  sympathies  in  the 
right  place.  I  staid  with  him  one  whole  day 
when  he  had  starved  himself  sick,  and  I  saw  his 
box,  and  his  bag  of  money !" 


64  SKOOT 

"A  miser!"  gasped  Margaret;  "a  real,  horrible 
miser!  O!" 

"A  real,  horrible  miser,"  repeated  Miss  Percy, 
laughing.  "His  plan  is  to  make  the  city  support 
him,  so  he  can  keep  his  money  untouched.  He 
has  no  relative  in  the  world,  as  far  as  the  city 
authorities  can  find  out.  I  ought  n't  to  have  left 
him  the  fruit — there  are  others  more  worthy — but 
I  dislike  to  visit  him  without  bringing  something." 

And  meanwhile  the  old  miser  had  locked  and 
barred  the  door,  and  watched  them  down  the  street 
through  a  crack  in  the  shutters.  Then  he  moved 
his  miserable  cot  to  one  side,  disclosing  an  iron 
ring  in  the  floor.  Lifting  this,  he  stooped  down 
and  drew  out  a  wooden  box,  with  brass  bands  and 
rivets.  He  seated  himself  beside  this,  and  opened 
it,  letting  the  gold  pieces  run  through  his  fingers, 
pressing  them  to  his  eyes,  his  face,  his  bosom,  as 
if  the  sensation  of  contact  were  most  exquisite 
pleasure.  Thus  he  sat  muttering,  trembling, 
chuckling,  whispering,  worshiping.  More  than 
once  he  laughed  noiselessly,  pointing  to  the  papers 
Miss  Percy  had  left. 

"The  ragman  will  give  me  a  penny,  and  I  will 
sell  them  to  him/'  he  muttered,  gleefully.  "Aha — 


SKOOT  65 

the  deaconess  will  give  the  old  man  a  penny,  a 
penny  to  go  with  these!"  and  as  the  bright  coins 
sifted  through  his  fingers  it  would  be  hard  to  tell 
which  of  the  two  was  yellower — the  round  pieces 
or  his  hands.  Angels  might  have  looked  on  him, 
and  wept  to  think  which  was  harder — the  gold 
or  his  heart. 


GUY  MERTON  lounged  uneasily  in  his  room 
the  next  morning.  He  had  just  opened  his 
mail,  and  one  special  communication  had  made  the 
young  fop  uncomfortable.  The  truth  was,  though 
the  son  of  a  reputed  millionaire,  his  personal  af- 
fairs were  in  very  bad  condition.  More  than  this, 
he  knew,  as  did  his  gouty  and  choleric  father,  that 
the  family  fortunes  were  deeply  involved.  In- 
judicious and  complicated  business  ventures  were 
behind  all  this. 

The  young  man's  habits  had  always  been  reck- 
lessly extravagant.  All  his  life  his  doting  mother 
had  encouraged  him  to  be  a  spendthrift,  and  his 
father  had  footed  the  bills  without  protest.  But 
of  late  there  had  been  some  passionate  interviews 
between  father  and  son.  Guy  was  fully  cognizant 

66 


SKOOT  67 

of  the  impending  ruin.  Notwithstanding  this 
knowledge  and  his  father's  repeated  admonitions, 
for  some  months  he  had  been  going  deeper  and 
deeper  into  debt.  The  old  gentleman  absolutely 
refused  to  pay,  and  his  creditors  were  becoming 
importunate. 

Altogether  he  was  in  a  very  bad  humor  as 
he  savagely  tore  up  this  very  plainly -worded 
"dun,"  which  unequivocably  gave  the  choice  of 
payment  within  a  stated  time  and  legal  procedure. 
Rumors  of  his  father's  financial  downfall  were 
being  whispered  abroad.  He  fancied  he  could  de- 
tect a  falling  off  in  the  obsequiousness  of  the  mer- 
chants with  whom  he  had  dealings. 

"It  's  all  up  with  me,"  he  muttered,  gloomily, 
"unless  I  can  marry  old  Doane's  daughter.  Con- 
found the  girl !  she  's  as  haughty  as  if  she  knew 
I  was  a  beggar.  But  they  do  n't  suspect  a  thing 
over  there,  or  my  lady's  mamma  would  not  smile 
on  me  as  she  does.  I  must  have  money.  That 
thousand  must  be  paid  in  thirty  days.  Now  the 
riddle  is,  Where  can  I  get  it?  The  governor 
draws  the  line  sharp.  I  owe  various  amounts  to 
nearly  all  the  club  fellows.  If  within  the  next  few 
days  the  society  column  had  a  paragraph  announc- 


68  SKOOT 

ing  my  engagement  with  Doane  the  lawyer's 
daughter,  I  could  get  Doddridge  &  Co.  to  accept 
a  note." 

Remembering  at  this  point  what  he  was  pleased 
to  term  Margaret's  "confounded  uppishness,"  he 
chewed  his  finger-ends  savagely.  Finally  he  went 
down  the  stairs  and  took  his  hat  from  the  rack. 
Slamming  the  heavy  doors  behind  him,  the  foot- 
man, for  some  reason,  not  being  on  duty,  he  ran 
down  the  marble  steps,  with  its  crouching  bronze 
lions  guarding  each  side,  and  joined  the  early 
pedestrians  on  the  sidewalk. 

He  walked  aimlessly,  occasionally  greeting  an 
acquaintance,  and  after  a  little  found  that  his  steps 
were  directed  toward  the  Union  Station.  By  this 
time  the  sun  was  quite  high,  and  he  lounged  into 
the  general  waiting-room  to  rest. 

There  was  the  usual  stream  of  people  passing 
in  and  out,  doors  slamming,  babies  crying,  mothers 
scolding  cabmen  shouting  without  the  railing, 
country  people,  uneasy  about  their  baggage,  run- 
ning excitedly  hither  and  thither.  Merton  looked 
on  it  all  with  a  half-scornful  interest,  until  a  new 
presence  aroused  him,  and  he  sat  upright. 

Three     young    women,    accompanied     by    a 


SKOOT  69 

deaconess  and  a  little  girl,  had  passed  him  where 
he  sat  gnawing  the  head  of  his  cane.  They  had 
not  noticed  him,  and  were  finding  seats  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  waiting-room.  They  were 
conversing  merrily  among  themselves  and  seemed 
especially  solicitous  about  the  little  girl,  who  clung 
closely  to  the  lady's  hand. 

Of  course  Merton's  eye  centered  upon  Mar- 
garet. How  fresh  and  sweet  she  looked  in  her 
plain  linen  traveling  dress  and  sailor  hat !  How 
devoted  she  was  to  the  pretty  child !  Merton 
ground  his  teeth  as  he  thought  of  Doddridge  & 
Co.  If  she  would  only  look  at  him  like  that ! 

All  at  once  he  noticed  a  new  arrival  in  the 
group  opposite.  A  bootblack  had  joined  them,  and 
was  bending  down  to  the  little  girl,  and  talking 
earnestly  with  her.  The  others  chatted  freely  with 
him,  and  seemed  to  make  much  of  him. 

"By  my  stars,  if  it 's  not  my  bootblack,"  mut- 
tered Merton ;  he  of  the  long  arms  and  legs.  What 
can  he  be  doing  here,  and  why  should  Margaret 
Doane  notice  him?" 

Just  then  Pansy  chanced  to  turn  her  wide, 
sightless  eyes  in  Merton's  direction,  so  that  he 
could  see  her  face.  Some  dim  remembrance  of  a 


70  SKOOT 

tenement  child  in  a  street-car  with  a  deaconess 
flitted  across  his  mind ;  but  he  dismissed  it  at  once. 
This  was  not  the  child.  But  who  was  she,  and 
where  were  they  all  going  ? 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  an  answer  to  his 
last  question.  The  broad-shouldered,  deep- 
chested,  wind-voiced  giant  whose  business  it  was 
to  announce  the  trains,  advanced  to  his  usual  post, 
and  began  calling,  in  an  elaborate  crescendo : 

"Train  ready  for  ,  ,  ,  ,  Idle- 
wood,  9.15 ;  track  No.  8.  All  abo-o-a-ard !" 

The  girls  made  a  rush  for  satchels,  boxes,  and 
umbrellas,  Miss  Percy  having  previously  secured 
their  tickets.  Such  a  merry  time  as  they  had  of 
it,  and  how  tender  they  were  of  the  little  girl ! 
The  bootblack  watched  them  through  the  gates, 
jauntily  swinging  his  rimless  hat.  Then  he  turned 
soberly  away,  with  a  sudden  lugubrious  drooping 
of  countenance. 

He  moved  slowly  off,  through  the  waiting- 
room,  and  out  to  the  street  again  through  a  side 
door.  On  the  sunny  sidewalk  a  group  of  street- 
gamins  had  collected.  One  of  them  had  picked 
up  a  half-dollar  on  the  crossing,  and  the  rest  were 
trying  to  make  him  realize  his  duty  toward  them. 


SKOOT  71 

He  was  a  little  fellow,  and  some  of  those  around 
him,  who  were  bigger  boys,  had  been  threatening 
him  if  he  did  not  "treat."  They  had  knocked  his 
hat  off,  yet  he  stood,  flushed  and  defiant,  but  with 
no  sign  of  surrendering.  Just  then  his  eye  fell 
on  Skoot  emerging  from  the  door  of  the  depot. 

He  raised  his  hands  to  his  lips,  giving  that 
peculiarly  shrill  whistle  that  only  a  street  boy  can 
execute  perfectly.  He  knew  Skoot  would  take 
his  part. 

One  of  the  other  fellows  also  recognized  the 
bootblack.  "It 's  Skoot  Higgins,"  he  announced. 
"He  's  got  just  five  thousand  legs,  an'  every  one 
of  'em  is  like  a  cannon  goin'  off.  I  tell  ye,  fellers, 
git!" 

They  scattered  in  all  directions,  leaving  the 
small  boy  master  of  the  situation.  Skoot  ap- 
proached slowly. 

"What  was  it  about,  Pete  ?"  he  asked. 

Pete  showed  him  the  half-dollar,  and  explained 
the  difficulty.  He  was  grateful  for  Skoot's  pro- 
tection, and  begged  him  to  have  half  the  money; 
but  Skoot  turned  indifferently  away. 

"Aw,  gawan,"  he  said,  "I  do  n't  want  none  o' 
yer  money." 


72  SKOOT 

Pete  looked  curiously  after  him.  "Somethin  's 
the  matter  with  Skoot,"  he  thought. 

And  something  was  the  matter  with  Skoot. 
Somewhere  back  there  was  a  strain  of  good  Scot- 
tish blood  in  his  veins,  and  of  late  it  had  been 
asserting  itself  in  vague  discontent  and  aspirations. 
New  thoughts  had  been  coming  to  him.  The  alley 
and  street  life,  as  it  was  revealed  to  him,  all  at 
once  became  intolerable.  He  thought  of  the  men 
whom  he  knew,  brutalized  by  liquor  and  poverty; 
of  the  women,  degraded  into  all  that  was  most 
unwomanly.  He  hated  Pinch  Alley  with  a  fiery, 
overwhelming  fury;  hated  its  foul  air  and  fouler 
tongues. 

A  boy,  perhaps  two  or  three  years  his  senior, 
swung  easily  along,  in  the  suit  of  a  high-school 
cadet.  He  was  whistling  the  air  of  a  popular  col- 
lege song.  Skoot  looked  after  him  with  a  strange 
bitterness  of  heart.  He  thought  of  this  boy's 
probable  home — its  comfort  and  refinement.  In 
future  years  some  position  of  honor  and  influence 
would  undoubtedly  be  his.  He  would  be  a  man — 
this  other  boy — to  be  respected.  And  then  came 
Skoot's  swift  second  thought.  Could  he  be  such 
a  man,  too?  Could  he?  The  odds  were  over- 


SKOOT  73 

whelming,  but  the  more  he  thought,  the  louder 
the  newly-awakened  voice  within  asserted  itself. 

Merton  had  been  an  amused  spectator  of  the 
little  byplay  with  Pete.  He  decided  to  follow 
Skoot  at  a  little  distance,  partly  from  an  idle 
curiosity,  and  partly  because  he  would  as  soon  go 
in  one  direction  as  another.  He  watched  the  boy 
seat  himself  on  a  shady  step,  throw  his  kit  aside, 
and  give  himself  up  to  what  seemed  unhappy  re- 
flection. He  saw  the  high-school  boy  go  by, 
whistling  and  swinging  his  books  by  a  strap,  and 
noted  the  look  that  Skoot  sent  after  him.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  speak  with  Skoot,  and  find 
out  what  he  could  of  Margaret  Doane's  plans, 
when  down  the  street  came  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  in 
advance  of  it  a  troop  of  shrieking,  howling,  whoop- 
ing street  hoodlums.  Just  ahead  of  them  was  the 
bent  figure  of  an  old  man,  who  was  running  to 
get  out  of  their  way. 

The  boys  were  pelting  their  victim  with  stones, 
bricks,  and  every  available  missile,  and  screaming 
most  opprobious  epithets.  He  hobbled  tremblingly 
on,  his  head  bare,  and  his  thin  locks  streaming  be- 
hind him ;  with  one  hand  he  grasped  his  stick,  and 
vainly  tried  to  shield  himself  with  the  other. 


74  SKOOT 

"Martin  the  miser!"  screeched  the  gamins,  clos- 
ing upon  him ;  "ho,  Martin,  hand  over  some  o'  yer 
shiners.  We  '11  pelt  yer  ef  yer  do  n't.  Give  it  ter 
him,  fellers !" 

Not  until  the  shrill  cry  had  been  several  times 
repeated  did  Skoot  recognize  the  faltering  old 
man.  Then  like  a  flash  he  was  up  and  off,  straight 
into  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  where  his  long  arms 
and  legs  made  instantaneous  havoc.  A  blow  here, 
a  kick  there,  deftly  if  not  scientifically  admin- 
istered, a  dexterous  punch  into  one  boy's  ribs  as 
he  collared  another,  and  the  discomfited  tor- 
mentors ruefully  retreated. 

Martin  lay  whining  in  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the 
street,  where  the  boys  had  forced  him.  Skoot 
helped  him  up,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  restored  his 
stick,  which  had  fallen  beside  him. 

The  old  man  was  much  frightened,  and 
trembled  pitifully.  "It 's  always  that  way,  every 
time  I  go  on  the  street,"  he  whimpered.  "The 
boys  make  fun  of  old  Martin.  Help  me  home, 
Skoot ;  do,  there  's  a  good  boy ;  and  I  will  give 
you  a  bit  of  money;  just  a  bit,  for  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  very  poor." 

Skoot  cheerfully  passed  his  kit  to  his  left  shoul- 


SKOOT  75 

der,  and  with  his  right  arm  supported  Martin  to 
his  door.  Once  there,  he  would  have  turned  away, 
but  the  old  man  begged  him  to  wait  outside  a  mo- 
ment while  he  went  in  alone. 

"They  would  surely  have  killed  me  that  time 
but  for  Skoot,"  he  muttered,  painfully  relocking 
the  door  and  drawing  forth,  his  box.  "Skoot  is 
a  good  boy,  a  very  good  boy,  as  boys  go.  Once 
before  he  saved  old  Martin  a  beating  from  those 
same  bad  hoodlums.  I  thought  then  I  'd  given  him 
a  gold-piece — a-a-dollar." 

He  picked  a  shining  round  piece  from  its  place, 
then  hesitated,  with  a  shrewd  tightening  of  his 
lips.  "I  never  told  him  I  'd  give  him  so  much. 
A  dollar  is  a  great  deal  of  money."  He  balanced 
it  nervously  from  hand  to  hand  for  a  minute,  and 
finally  laid  it  back,  taking  in  its  place  a  silver 
half.  He  looked  at  this  keenly,  and  felt  of  its  sur- 
face and  edges.  "A  half  is  a  good  bit  of  money, 
too,"  he  whispered,  "a  good  bit.  A  quarter  is 
enough  for  the  boy."  He  replaced  the  box,  and 
turned  toward  the  door  irresolutely.  "A  quarter 
is  too  much,  too  much,"  he  went  on.  "So  I  will 
give  Skoot  a  dime,  a  whole  shining  silver  dime." 

He  made  the  exchange,  and  again  replaced  the 


;6  SKOOT 

box.  Then  he  unbarred  the  door.  The  dime  was 
burning  his  hand.  If  he  only  could  put  it  back 
into  the  box!  But  it  might  be  that  some  time 
again  he  would  be  exposed  to  bad  boys,  and  need 
Skoot.  Yes,  he  would  part  with  the  dime.  He 
opened  the  door  and  called  softly : 

"Skoot!  Skoot!  Where  is  the  boy?" 
Martin   looked   right  and  left,  but  could  see 
nothing  of  him.     In  great  glee  he  re-entered  the 
house  and  returned  the  dime  to  its  place. 

And  Skoot — where  was  he?  Growing  tired  of 
waiting  for  the  old  man,  and  having  no  confidence 
in  his  promise  of  money,  he  had  run  around  the 
house  after  a  stray  dog  that  was  limping  pain- 
fully on  three  legs.  Skoot  was  very  fond  of  dogs, 
and  this  one  was  bruised  and  hurt.  So  he  ran 
across  the  front  of  the  little  house,  turned  the  cor- 
ner sharply,  and  came  suddenly  upon  a  man  whose 
eyes  were  against  a  crack  in  the  shutters.  As 
Skoot  ran  against  him,  he  turned  on  the  boy  with 
profane  words.  Then  Skoot  saw  that  he  was 
fashionably  dressed,  with  a  dangling  eyeglass,  and 
that  there  was  a  peculiar  scar  on  his  face. 


IT  was  noon  when  Miss  Percy  and  the  girls 
reached  Idlewood.  But  noon  here  was  very 
different  from  the  same  hour  in  the  city.  The 
sunshine  could  only  penetrate  the  pines  at  cer- 
tain places,  where  the  tops  opened  to  the  sky. 
Then  it  only  served  to  make  a  glint  of  moving 
gold  among  the  pine  needles,  and  cones,  and 
mosses.  Before  the  grove  stretched  the  lake,  beau- 
tiful in  its  peace  and  solitude.  The  water  lapped 
into  little  coves  and  inlets,  around  tree-sentineled 
headlands  and  grassy  promontories,  with  shy,  glid- 
ing grace. 

Many  passengers  streamed  from  the  low,  red 
depot  toward  the  grove.  There  were  placid 
matrons  and  giddy  girls,  old  men  and  prattling 

77 


78  SKOOT 

children.  Ministers  with  white  ties  and  linen  coats 
hurried  hither  and  thither  in  behalf  of  families  or 
parishioners.  Molly  nudged  Dora,  and  began  to 
recite,  in  a  tragical  undertone : 

"Parsons  to  right  of  them, 
Parsons  to  left  of  them, 
Parsons  in  front  of  them 

Rushed  forth  and  scrambled." 

But  all  at  once  they  were  at  the  cottage.  It 
was  one  of  many  others  on  a  pleasant  side  avenue, 
and  commanded  a  delightful  view  of  the  lake.  The 
key,  which  had  been  left  for  them  at  the  post- 
office,  turned  readily  in  the  lock  with  a  cheery, 
creaky  welcome.  With  a  rush  they  were  inside. 
There  were  two  rooms,  with  portieres  that  could 
be  pushed  aside,  thus  converting  two  apartments 
into  one.  There  was  also  a  roughly-built  annex 
in  the  rear,  designed  to  serve  as  a  cookhouse.  Up- 
stairs were  rooms,  with  a  pair  of  inviting  white 
beds,  and  a  cot.  There  was  a  porch  on  the  front, 
where  the  girls  hastened  to  swing  a  hammock  and 
set  out  chairs.  Then,  being  quite  breathless  with 
their  exertions,  they  sat  down  to  enjoy  it. 

It  came  to  be  a  familiar  sight  at  the  grove — 
the  blind  child  and  the  three  girls,  chaperoned  by 


SKOOT  79 

a  deaconess.  Pansy  and  Miss  Percy  were  often 
seen  walking  hand  in  hand  through  the  avenues 
or  along  the  shady  country  roads.  Many  were  the 
confidences  that  the  child  gave  to  her  friend — of 
the  room  in  the  alley  brightened  by  the  gentle 
mother's  voice  and  presence;  of  the  same  room 
chilled  and  made  strange  by  death;  again,  dese- 
crated by  the  coarse-voiced  woman  whom  her 
father  had  put  in  her  mother's  place,  and  made 
terrible  by  that  father's  3;  owing  brutality. 

One  day  they  had  walked  some  little  distance 
into  the  woods.  The  sky  shone  in  patches  of  blue 
above  the  trees ;  bright-eyed  squirrels  looked  ques- 
tioningly  down  at  them  from  their  leafy  coverts. 
The  air  was  fragrant  with  the  subtle,  spicy  smells 
of  the  woods  and  ground. 

Pansy  was  unusually  exhausted  to-day.  She 
was  not  gaining  strength  as  her  friends  had  hoped 
she  would.  They  seated  themselves  on  a  fallen 
tree-trunk,  stripped  of  its  bark,  and  encircled  with 
moss.  She  leaned  back,  very  pale  and  exhausted, 
while  Miss  Percy  deftly  arranged  a  shawl  for  her 
comfort.  When  she  had  done  all  she  could,  the 
child's  lips  were  pitifully  set  and  white,  and  the 
long  lashes  swept  her  cheek. 


8o  SKOOT 

For  the  first  time  the  thought  crossed  Miss 
Percy's  mind  that,  perhaps,  while  they  had  been 
praying  and  planning  that  Pansy  need  not  return 
to  Pinch  Alley,  the  Heavenly  Father  had  willed 
something  far  above  their  thoughts.  A  quick  pain 
shot  through  the  deaconess's  heart,  for  she  had 
learned  to  love  this  afflicted,  clinging  child  as  she 
never  had  loved  another.  Yet  she  remembered 
that,  loving  her  as  she  did,  the  Savior  loved  her 
more,  and  the  heart  of  the  Eternal  Father  beat  in 
infinite  tenderness  for  this,  his  little  one. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  the  woman  gathered 
the  brown  head  to  her  breast,  as  only  a  woman 
can,  and  lovingly  smoothed  the  brow  and  cheek. 
A  quiet  smile  rested  for  a  moment  on  Pansy's 
face,  to  be  quickly  followed  by  the  serious,  wistful, 
old  look  that  had  become  habitual  to  it. 

"Your  hand  is  cool,  like  hers,"  she  said,  "so 
gentle.  It  rests  me.  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall 
see  her  soon.  Perhaps  Jesus  will  send  her  for 
me,  and  he  will  make  my  eyes  so  I  can  see  her. 
Before  she  died,  I  used  to  wonder  how  she  looked 
when  she  talked  with  me;  but  I  have  seen  her 
so  many  times  in  my  dreams,  and  she  is  so  happy, 
so  beautiful." 


SKOOT  81 

Miss  Percy  let  her  talk  on,  yet  always  with 
that  stricken  feeling  of  the  heart.  She  pressed  the 
little  hand  tenderly,  and  said  nothing. 

"Mamma  always  came  to  my  bed  and  kissed 
me  before  I  went  to  sleep.  It  never  seemed  so 
dark  then.  Sometimes,  when  I  had  been  fretful 
through  the  day,  I  used  to  wonder  if  she  would 
kiss  me  just  the  same.  And  she  always  did.  I 
never  went  to  sleep  until  we  had  prayed  to  the 
Lord  Jesus  together." 

An  English  writer  has  said  that  the  mother  is 
the  child's  god.  Certain  it  is  that  the  first  soul- 
consciousness  of  a  need  of  love  and  forgiveness 
from  a  higher  Source  meets  its  response  in  that 
human,  divine  relationship.  O  mothers!  by  the 
heaviness  of  the  years  in  which  you  cry  out  for 
the  touch  of  a  mother's  hand  upon  your  fore- 
head, by  the  solemn  memory  of  nights  of  pain 
and  solitude  when  your  heart  breaks  to  hear  her 
voice  once  more,  make  the  good-night  moments 
with  your  own  little  ones  a  psalm,  a  prayer,  a  sacred 
memorial  for  the  after  years  when  your  hands  shall 
be  dust.  Forgive  the  little  faults,  kiss  away  the 
tears,  remembering  that  before  the  great  Father 
of  souls  we  are  all  erring  children. 
6 


82  SKOOT 

After  a  little  Pansy  slept.  Miss  Percy  laid  her 
gently  down  on  the  shawl,  letting  her  head  yet 
remain  in  her  lap.  She  had  brought  with  her  a 
book — a  little  volume  of  spiritual  teaching — but 
after  a  few  moments  she  laid  it  down,  realizing 
that  her  mind  was  all  on  the  child. 

She  wondered  what  the  girls  would  say  should 
they  see  the  change  that  was  coming  over  Pansy. 
They  were  full  of  plans  for  her  future,  the  only 
obstacle  being  the  possible  unwillingness  of  her 
brutish  father  to  give  her  up.  And  then  her  mind 
dwelt  upon  them — her  girls,  as  she  loved  to  think 
of  them.  They  were  not  gaining  any  spiritual 
strength  from  the  meetings.  Indeed,  they  ad- 
mitted honestly  that  they  did  not  care  for  the 
preaching  or  the  frequent  meetings  for  prayer. 
Miss  Percy  could  see  that  their  hearts  were  be- 
coming hardened  by  trifling  with  the  things  of  the 
Spirit.  She  felt  that  if  this  week  did  not  bring 
them  consciously  near  to  the  Savior,  the  path  to 
Calvary,  should  they  ever  find  it,  would  be  back 
across  a  weary  stretch  of  years,  and  over  barriers 
that  they  had  unconsciously  placed  for  their  feet. 

Very  sad  thoughts  they  were,  altogether,  that 
filled  her  heart  and  dimmed  her  eyes  as  she  sat 


SKOOT  83 

silently  smoothing  the  pale  forehead  which  sun  and 
shadow  alternately  crowned  with  gold  and  gloom. 
With  a  heavy  heart  she  realized  how  futile  are 
human  plans,  and  that  Pansy's  eternal  crown,  on 
which  there  should  be  no  shadow,  was  nearly  won. 

There  was  a  sudden  creaking  of  the  twigs  and 
bushes,  a  firm  step  on  the  leaves  and  underbrush, 
and  she  lifted  her  face  to  look  into  that  of  Dr. 
Armor,  the  minister  in  whose  pulpit  she  had 
spoken  the  previous  Sunday,  and  the  pastor  of  all 
three  of  these  girls. 

"You  have  found  a  delightful  retreat,  Miss 
Percy,"  he  said,  as  he  greeted  her.  "Is  the  little 
one  sleeping?  I  have  seen  her  with  you  many 
times.  The  change  is  benefiting  her,  do  you 
think  ?" 

Miss  Percy  shook  her  head,  not  conscious  un- 
til then  that  tears  had  been  in  her  eyes.  But  they 
splashed  down — two  big,  undeniable  tears — upon 
Pansy's  hair. 

"You  are  in  trouble,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
man.  "May  I  sit  here  beside  you,  and  will  you 
tell  me  a  little  about  it?  Sometimes  a  burden  is 
lighter  for  being  shared." 

And  in  a  low  voice  that  refused  to  be  steadied, 


84  SKOOT 

she  told  him  of  her  anxiety  for  the  girls,  her  fears 
for  Pansy. 

"Yet  I  should  not  be  unhappy  for  the  little 
one,"  she  went  on,  "for  nothing  could  bring  her 
such  joy  as  to  know  that  she  was  soon  to  be  with 
Jesus  and  the  dear  mother.  Sometimes  I  think 
she  does  know  it.  Her  conversation  is  all  of 
heaven.  But  my  fears  are  for  the  girls.  Before 
I  went  away  to  the  training-school  I  knew  them 
all,  very  slightly,  to  be  sure,  but  yet  enough  to 
feel  that  they  were  all  earnest  Christian  girls.  But 
they  are  so  different!  Margaret  has  talked  with 
me  some ;  but  of  late  her  heart  seems  closed.  Dora 
is  frank  to  acknowledge  her  disbelief  of  many 
things  we  hold  sacred.  Molly  is  bewitched  by  a 
godless  young  fellow,  who  flatters  her,  and  makes 
light  of  religion.  Still  they  tell  me  they  are  mem- 
bers of  M Avenue  Church,  never  having  sev- 
ered their  relations.  What  can  be  done?  Every 
day  their  hearts  grow  harder  and  colder." 

"It  is  a  perplexing  question,"  replied  Dr.  Ar- 
mor, slowly.  "The  home  influences  of  each  of 
these  girls  are  somewhat  peculiar.  Margaret's 
parents  are  worldly,  and  wholly  given  up  to  social 
enjoyment.  They  are  attendants,  but  not  mem- 


SKOOT  85 

bers,  of  the  Church.  Dora  I  do  not  know  as  well. 
She  has  been  away  at  college,  except  for  vaca- 
tions, all  through  my  pastorate.  Her  father  is  a 
busy,  kindly  man — a  physician  with  a  large  prac- 
tice; but  neither  he  nor  his  wife  profess  religion. 
Molly's  mother  is  a  sharp-eyed,  sharp-voiced, 
bustling  woman  with  five  daughters  to  marry  off. 
She  smiles  on  Molly's  friendships,  and  sees  noth- 
ing imprudent  in  them  or  in  her  bearing.  It  is 
a  puzzle  to  know  just  what  to  do.  I  think  I  shall 
talk  personally  with  each  of  them  before  the 
week  is  over." 

And  so  he  did;  kindly,  firmly,  plainly,  as  one 
who  had  oversight  of  their  souls.  Margaret  raised 
her  eyebrows  in  polite  evasion,  Dora  smiled 
in  serene  indifference,  and  Molly  alternately 
dimpled  with  roguishness  and  shrank  back  in  hor- 
ror at  "being  talked  to."  When  he  left  them  the 
burden  was  as  heavy  on  his  heart  as  on  Miss 
Percy's. 

"We  will  be  faithful  in  praying  for  them,"  he 
said,  "and  the  Spirit  will  touch  their  hearts." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


r  \^  HE  next  morning  a  phaeton  drew  up  at  the 
-•-  cottage  door.  It  was  hired  by  Miss  Percy, 
that  she  might  take  Pansy  to  the  nearest  physician, 
who  was  three  miles  away.  The  girls,  ever  tender 
and  kind  with  the  child,  combined  their  efforts  to 
make  her  comfortable  with  shawls  and  pillows  in- 
numerable. Dismissing  the  driver,  Miss  Percy 
took  the  reins,  and  they  drove  away. 

It  was  a  fragrant,  dewy  morning.  Farmers 
were  cutting  and  loading  hay,  birds  twittered  in 
the  trees  as  they  drove  slowly  along  the  pleasant 
country  road.  Barefooted  children  looked  out  at 
them  from  their  play,  and  the  open  doors  of  the 
occasional  farmhouses  revealed  glimpses  of  com- 
fortable home-life.  House-dogs  ran  out  and  barked 

86 


SKOOT  87 

at  them  fiercely,  then  ran  back,  probably  with  a 
sense  of  having  done  all  that  was  expected  of 
them. 

The  doctor's  house  was  one  of  those  rambling 
country  houses,  with  a  wide  porch  and  side  wings. 
It  was  painted  white,  with  green  blinds,  and  stood 
back  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  row  of  massive  elms. 
The  walk  leading  to  the  door  was  bordered  by 
beds  of  mignonette,  petunias,  hollyhocks,  and 
other  old-fashioned  flowers.  Children's  play- 
things were  scattered  over  the  porch,  and  a  little 
boy,  with  bobbing  yellow  curls,  was  vigorously 
riding  a  hobby-horse. 

A  sweet-faced  woman  came  through  the  hall 
to  greet  them.  No,  doctor  was  not  in.  He  had 
gone  into  the  country  to.  visit  a  patient,  but  would 
be  back  soon.  She  was  even  now  expecting  him. 
Would  the  lady  come  inside  and  wait? 

So  they  went  into  the  wide,  low  room,  with  its 
deep  window-seats  and  evergreen-filled  fireplace. 
The  vines  outside  made  a  tracery  of  changing 
brightness  and  shadow  on  the  carpet,  and  the 
breath  of  sweet  peas  was  wafted  from  the  garden- 
beds.  They  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  before  long 
there  was  a  sound  of  wheels  on  the  gravel,  and 


88  SKOOT 

a  call  to  the  stable-boy,  followed  by  the  sliding 
of  the  carriage-house  door. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  doctor  entered,  very  dusty 
and  heated.  He  was  a  stout,  puffy  little  man, 
with  a  bald  head,  and  smooth  cheeks  that  had  a 
way  of  filling  with  wind  as  he  breathed.  He 
mopped  his  forehead  vigorously  while  Miss  Percy 
stated  her  errand.  Then  he  took  the  child's  hand, 
and  as  suddenly  dropped  it,  as  he  started  back, 
realizing  that  his  patient  was  blind. 

"Why,  bless  my  stars !"  he  ejaculated,  "the 
child  can  not  see.  What  did  you  say  her  name 
was?  Pansy?  H'm.  Is  she  your  child?" 

"No  relative,  only  a  very  dear  friend,"  answered 
the  deaconess.  "We  hoped  that  the  change  of  air 
from  the  city  to  Idlewood  would  restore  her 
strength,  but  she  grows  weaker  every  day." 

He  felt  Pansy's  pulse,  without  replying,  and 
made  a  long,  silent  examination  of  the  lungs  and 
heart.  Then  going  to  the  door,  which  he  had 
closed  on  entering,  he  opened  it,  and  called  to 
his  wife. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  as  that  lady  appeared,  "this 
little  child  can  not  see;  but  I  know  she  would 
enjoy  the  smelling  of  a  bunch  of  posies  if  you 


SKOOT  89 

should  take  her  into  the  garden.  Would  n't  you, 
Puss  ?"  he  said,  softly  pinching  Pansy's  cheek. 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  in  her 
peculiarly  old  and  serious  way,  and  the  doctor's 
wife  led  her  away,  out  among  the  flowers,  and 
birds,  and  butterflies.  The  doctor  closed  the  door, 
and,  sitting  down,  began  drumming  his  knees  with 
his  fingers. 

"Well?"  interrogated  Miss  Percy,  nervously. 

"Bad  complications,  very  bad;  delicate  consti- 
tution; badly  worn.  Did  you  say  she  was  your 
child?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Your  sister,  then  ?  No  ?  Cousin  ?  Family  re- 
semblance, you  see.  O,  no  relation — only  a  friend. 
Where  is  her  mother?  She  ought  to  be  with  her." 

"Her  mother  has  been  dead  nearly  a  year.  I 
will  speak  plainly  concerning  her,  doctor.  She  is 
a  little,  unfortunate  child,  abused  by  a  brutal  step- 
mother and  a  drinking  father.  We  found  her  in 

one  of  the  lowest  sections  of  the  city  of . 

We  hoped  to  take  her  away,  and  find  her  a  pleasant 
home  where  she  would  be  cared  for,  for  she  is  a 
very  sweet  and  beautiful  child.  But  of  late  it  has 
seemed  that  she  would  never  be  strong  again." 


90  SKOOT 

"No,  she  won't,"  said  the  doctor,  bluntly,  his 
cheeks  filling  and  emptying  at  a  prodigious  rate. 
"So  she  is  a  tenement  child,  is  she  ?  Never  would 
have  thought  it.  Good  ancestry  somewhere.  Must 
be.  But  you  are  correct  in  your  fears.  She  can 
not  live.  In  fact,  she  may  die  any  time." 

When  Miss  Percy  rose  to  go  it  was  with  a 
pitiful  sense  of  desolation  in  her  heart.  She  had 
been  an  only  child,  and  her  father  and  mother  were 
still  living.  So,  though  she  had  looked  on  death 
many  times,  she  felt  that  its  shadow  had  never 
chilled  her  heart  as  now,  so  much  had  she  grown 
to  love  Pansy. 

They  went  outside,  and  joined  the  doctor's  wife 
on  the  porch.  Pansy  was  sitting  beside  her  with 
a  lap  full  of  the  velvety  flowers  whose  name  she 
bore.  The  doctor  wrote  a  prescription,  and  spoke 
a  few  kindly  words.  He  helped  them  into  the 
phaeton,  and  they  drove  away. 

Pansy  asked  no  questions  on  the  way  home. 
She  held  her  cherished  flowers,  and  said  she  was 
tired,  and  wanted  to  rest. 

When  they  again  reached  the  cottage  the  child 
was  asleep,  and  the  flowers  wilted  and  dead.  They 
fell  and  drooped  at  her  feet.  Poor  pansies !  Type 


SKOOT  91 

of  the  earth-blossom  that  was  even  then  fading 
and  dying ! 

That  evening  they  were  all  sitting  on  the  porch 
together.  Miss  Percy  had  talked  to  them  about 
Pansy  soon  after  the  return  from  the  doctor's 
house.  At  first  they  had  refused  to  admit  the 
danger  at  all;  but  Miss  Percy  reported  the  words 
of  the  physician  as  plainly  as  he  had  spoken,  and 
the  verdict  was  very  far  from  satisfactory.  To- 
night they  were  especially  tender  of  the  child.  The 
little  cot  had  been  brought  out,  and  she  lay  resting 
upon  it  while  the  fresh  young  voices  sang  hymn 
after  hymn. 

Suddenly  Pansy  reached  for  Molly's  hand,  and, 
still  holding  it,  groped  farther  until  she  had 
touched  Dora's  and  Margaret's  likewise.  Hold- 
ing the  three  together,  she  spoke  to  them  grate- 
fully of  their  kindness  in  giving  her  this  happy 
summer,  of  the  beautiful  home  to  which  she  was 
going,  and  how  she  would  tell  Jesus  of  their  care 
and  love  to  the  poor,  blind  child. 

Molly's  tears  fell  fast.  "O  Pansy,  darling,  do 
not  talk  so!"  she  said.  "We  want  you  to  be  well 
and  strong  and  happy  in  some  pretty  home,  with 
friends  to  love  you  and  care  for  you." 


92  SKOOT 

"But  it  is  better,"  whispered  the  child,  "it  is 
better — to  be  with  Jesus." 

And  thus  they  sang  and  talked  far  into  the 
night.  Then  they  went  inside.  Very  tenderly  the 
little  cot  was  set  in  its  place  beside  Miss  Percy's 
bed.  They  bent  over  her  to  bid  her  good-night, 
and  a  new  thought  came  to  Miss  Percy.  It  might 
be — might  be — that  Pansy -could  do  for  these  girls 
what  neither  she  nor  Dr.  Armor  nor  any  one  else 
could.  Was  it  not  written  that  God  had  revealed 
unto  babes  that  which  was  hidden  from  the  wise 
and  prudent? 


THERE  were  new  neighbors  across  the  way — 
a  young  man,  somewhat  delicate  in  appear- 
ance, a  lady  whom  it  was  easy  to  recognize  as  his 
mother,  and  another  lady,  some  years  older,  whom 
he  addressed  as  aunt. 

Frank  Traverse  was  a  student  who  had  sought 
the  invigorating  pine  air  to  restore  the  strength 
exhausted  by  a  year's  close  application  to  study. 
He  and  his  mother  were  sitting  on  the  porch  one 
afternoon  when  across  the  avenue  a  cot  was 
brought  out,  and  pillows  arranged  with  great  care. 

"Some  one  must  be  sick  over  there,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Traverse.  "I  wonder  who  it  can  be.  Miss 
Percy,  the  deaconess,  is  staying  there,  and  there 
are  two  or  three  girls." 

93 


94  SKOOT 

Just  then  Margaret  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
carrying  Pansy,  who  had  become  too  weak  to 
walk.  She  laid  her  tenderly  down,  smoothing  the 
pillow  with  her  hand. 

"It  is  a  child,"  said  Frank;  "but  it  might  be 
an  angel,  judging  from  her  face.  How  spiritual 
it  is,  and  how  pale !  I  wonder  who  the  girl  is  with 
her.  Her  sister,  I  suppose,  though  they  do  not 
look  alike.  Do  n't  you  think  you  ought  to  go 
over,  mother?  The  little  girl  seems  very  weak." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  new  neighbors 
lost  little  time  in  getting  acquainted.  The  suffer- 
ing child  drew  them  together.  When  Mrs. 
Traverse  had  learned  her  sad  history,  she  longed 
to  take  her  into  her  heart  and  home.  "I  never 
had  a  daughter,"  she  said,  "and  O,  the  joy  it  would 
be  to  care  for  this  little  child!  We  must  induce 
her  miserable  father  to  give  her  up,  and  after  this 
season  is  over  we  will  take  her  home  with  us." 

What  plans  she  made!  The  first  and  all-im- 
portant thing  was  to  consult  a  specialist  for  the 
child's  eyes.  Then  the  little  alcove  room  at  home 
should  be  newly  papered  and  furnished,  and 
daintily  harmonized  in  pink  and  blue.  There 
should  be  a  small  white  bed  and  dressing-table, 


SKOOT  95 

and  all  the  dainty  furnishings  that  should  be  found 
in  a  girl's  room.  And  so,  in  her  loving  short- 
sightedness, she  planned  and  planned,  refusing  to 
believe  that  the  Heavenly  Friend  had  planned 
otherwise. 

Aunt  Jolly,  who,  by  the  way,  was  a  tall,  thin, 
solemn-visaged  lady  of  sixty,  was  not  at  all  in 
sympathy  with  these  ideas.  Her  name  and  dis- 
position were  diametrical  opposites.  "What 's  in 
a  name  ?"  Nothing,  surely,  in  Aunt  Jolly's  case ; 
for  though  a  sincere,  praying  woman,  she  viewed 
the  world  and  all  that  is  therein  through  double 
pessimistic  spectacles;  maintained  with  all  the 
fervor  of  a  philosopher  that  the  world  was  just 
as  bad  as  it  could  be;  and,  with  all  the  incon- 
sistency of  a  woman,  that  it  was  steadily  growing 
worse.  She  had  no  faith  in  the  disinterested  kind- 
heartedness  of  the  girls  opposite,  nor  yet  in  that 
of  the  deaconess. 

"Folks  can  appear  very  fine/'  she  said,  lugu- 
briously inclining  her  head;  "folks  can  seem  to  be 
pretty  and  kind  and  nice,  and  if  you  do  n't  look 
out  you  '11  grow  to  like  them,  but — " 

Aunt  Jolly's  "buts"  always  concluded  her 
diagnoses.  But  her  sister  and  nephew  had  long 


96  SKOOT 

been  accustomed  to  her  peculiarities,  and  never 
took  them  seriously.  They  only  laughed  good- 
naturedly  at  what  they  called  her  "notions." 

The  porch  across  the  way  became  the  center  of 
much  interest  to  the  people  of  the  avenue.  The 
little  cot  became  almost  a  shrine,  where  even 
the  stranger  paused  for  a  moment,  and  went  away 
uplifted  in  soul.  Many  and  long  were  the  con- 
versations on  spiritual  subjects  held  about  it. 
Frank  Traverse  found  himself  studying  the  three 
girls,  and  was  not  long  in  deciding  that  they  were 
not  in  the  enjoyment  of  daily  communion  with 
the  Father.  Margaret  was  always  reserved  and 
quiet;  Dora  leaned  dangerously  toward  agnostic 
views.  Molly  was  a  chatterbox,  continually  giv- 
ing expression  to  what  she  thought,  and  to  much 
that  she  did  n't  think. 

"What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Traverse,"  she  said, 
brightly,  one  day  as  they  were  all  sitting  together, 
"I  refused  an  invitation  to  go  wheeling  with  a 
friend  to-morrow,  just  because  it  was  Sunday,  and 
for  the  sake  of  our  little  friend  here.  I  knew  it 
would  grieve  her  for  me  to  go,  and  so  I  told — 
him — no.  I  suppose  you  think  Sunday  wheeling 
is  dreadful?" 


SKOOT  97 

"To  the  Christian,"  he  answered,  "Sunday  is 
sacred  as  the  day  on  which  Jesus  came  forth  from 
the  tomb.  Even  outside  of  this,  there  are  argu- 
ments why  one  day  in  seven  should  be  set  apart 
as  a  day  of  rest.  Yes,  Miss  Molly,  I  shall  have 
to  plead  guilty  to  saying  that  I  do  believe  that 
Sunday  wheeling  is  'dreadful.' ': 

The  others  laughed,  but  he  remained  thought- 
ful. "These  questions  of  recreation  are  really  very 
serious,"  he  went  on.  "Our  young  people  seldom 
realize  what  danger  there  is  in  questionable 
amusements." 

"You  object  to  the  dance,  too,  I  suppose?" 
queried  Dora,  as  she  gently  fanned  the  face  on 
the  pillow. 

"Most  decidedly.  The  dance  is,  and  always 
has  been,  degrading.  But  once  entered  upon, 
there  is  a  fascination  which  it  requires  great 
strength  of  character  to  break.  Few  people  can 
break  a  chain  after  they  have  riveted  it.  It  takes 
a  strength  greater  than  ours." 

"There   is   one   thing,"   said   Molly,   abruptly, 

after   a   little    pause,    "that,    if   it   could   be    had, 

would  go  a  long  way  towards  establishing  people 

in  religious  principle.     It  is   what   old-fashioned 

7 


98  SKOOT 

Methodists  call  'experience.'  I  have  known  a 
great  many  professing  Christians  who  make  no 
claim  to  any  conscious  'experience,'  because  it  is 
not  to  be  had.  There  are  many  who  fall  away." 

"Not  to  be  had,  Miss  Molly?  Are  you  sure? 
Do  you  know  that  the  very  experience  which  you 
say  is  not  to  be  had  has  comforted  the  martyr  in 
the  flames,  the  afflicted  in  sorrow,  the  suffering 
in  death?  Never  would  I  attempt  to  preach  the 
gospel  if  I  did  not  definitely,  positively  know  that 
it  is  to  be  had — the  blessed  witness  of  the  Spirit. 
Paul  affirmed  it,  as  did  also  Calvin,  Ridley, 
Melanchthon,  Chrysostom.  Calvin  says,  'Where 
this  pledge  of  Divine  love  towards  us  is  wanting, 
there  is  assuredly  no  faith.'  Ridley  declares, 
'The  Spirit  of  God  is  given  us  to  put  us  in  surety 
that  God  favoreth  us ;  if  we  lack  this  Spirit,  we 
be  none  of  Christ's.'  Chrysostom  says,  'The 
Supreme  Being,  who  is  himself  the  Author  and 
Source  of  Adoption,  bears  this  testimony.'  Me- 
lanchthon says,  'The  Holy  Spirit  is  sent  into  the 
hearts  of  believers,  that  he  may  kindle  new  light, 
righteousness,  and  life  eternal.  He  witnesses, 
bears  testimony  within  us,  that  we  are  received 
into  favor.'" 


SKOOT  99 

"It  seems  very  plain,"  said  Margaret,  with  a 
sigh,  "but  in  some  way  it  is  a  knowledge  that  few 
people  have,  or  really  seem  to  have.  If  the  expe- 
rience were  only  more  common,  there  would  be 
fewer  backsliders." 

All  at  once  it  became  evident  that  Molly  was 
becoming  very  much  embarrassed.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  swinging 
jauntily  down  the  avenue.  He  lifted  his  hat  as  he 
neared  the  group  on  the  porch,  and,  pausing  by 
Molly,  waited  for  the  usual  introductions. 

"Mr.  Rivers,  Miss  Doane,  Miss  Clark,  Mr. 
Traverse." 

These  formalities  over,  he  seated  himself  near 
Molly,  and  began  a  conversation  in  an  undertone. 

"So  this  is  your  little  protegee,  eh?  And  that," 
in  a  lower  tone,  "is  your  deaconess?  What  a 
long  face !  Do  they  have  to  look  that  way  to  be 
religious  ?" 

Molly  was  angry,  and  moved  her  chair  nearer 
Pansy's  cot  without  speaking.  But  he  was  not  to 
be  put  off. 

"Say  that  you  've  changed  your  mind  about 
that  spin  into  the  country  Sunday,"  he  pleaded. 
"There  's  a  jolly  crowd  going,  and  I  Ve  engaged 


ioo  SKOOT 

two  wheels,  knowing  that  when  you  came  to 
think  it  over  you  'd  surely  go." 

"I  'm  not  going,"  said  Molly,  curtly.  "I 
have  n't  changed  my  mind  in  the  least." 

The  young  man  whistled.  "You  '11  go  up  with 
me  on  the  train  to-night?"  he  asked.  "Great  play, 
superb  acting,  drawing  the  largest  crowds  of  the 
season.  I  have  tickets  for  the  balcony." 

What  had  come  over  Molly?  "I  dare  say  you  '11 
find  some  one  to  enjoy  it  with  you,"  she  said.  "I 
am  not  going." 

"To  the  theater?"  he  gasped,  astonished. 
"You  did  n't  understand.  I  spoke  of  the  theater." 

"I  understood  you  perfectly,  and  I  do  not  care 
to  go.  There  are  reasons,"  glancing  at  Pansy, 
"why  I  shall  not  go.  Perhaps — I  do  not  know — 
it  may  be  that  I  shall  never  go  to  the  theater 
again." 

"I  see,"  sneered  the  young  man,  disagreeably. 
"You  always  jumped  at  the  chance  of  going,  but 
our  long-faced  deaconess  and  a  beggar  child  are 
trying  to  convert  you.  O,  well,  never  fear  but 
that  the  tickets  will  be  used." 

Until  then  Molly  had  not  noticed  that  they 
were  alone.  Frank  and  Margaret  were  strolling 


SKOOT  101 

down  the  avenue  together,  a  habit  they  had  of 
late  taken  up.  Dora  and  Miss  Percy  had  gone 
inside. 

Molly  rose,  with  coldness  enough  to  do 
credit  to  Dora  herself.  "You  have  said  enough, 
Mr.  Rivers,"  she  said,  her  breath  coming  and 
going  nervously;  "you  have  not  only  insulted 
me,  but  my  friends  as  well.  Hereafter  we  are 
acquaintances  only,"  and  she  passed  him  his  hat 
which  had  been  lying  on  the  porch.  He  looked 
at  her  a  moment,  as  if  undecided  what  to  do ;  but 
Molly  was  still  standing,  and  showed  no  symp- 
toms of  crying,  as  he  had  hoped.  He  muttered  a 
few  unintelligible  words,  and  walked  away,  con- 
siderably crestfallen. 

"Molly,  dear,"  and  a  little  hand  patted  the  one 
that  was  trembling  violently  as  it  rested  on  the 
cot,  "Molly,  dear,  I  'm  so  glad." 

Molly  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"Why,  Girlie?"  she  asked. 

"Because  I  think,"  said  the  child,  with  that 
peculiar  intuition  that  is  sometimes  found  in  the 
very  young,  "because  I  think  he  is  not  a  good 
man,  and  I  do  not  think  that  he  loves  you  at  all." 

Molly  was  silent,  but   secretly  congratulated 


102  SKOOT 

herself  on  the  part  she  had  taken.  She  felt  that 
she  had  done  right  in  dismissing  Rivers,  for  she 
could  not  deny  that  his  influence  over  her  was 
bad. 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  an  old  maid  now,"  she 
sighed,  ruefully  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "Well, 
if  I  do,  I  '11  try  to  be  as  nice  a  one  as  Miss  Percy. 
The  idea  of  his  daring  to  speak  of  her  as  he  did ! 
She  is  the  sweetest  woman  I  ever  knew.  I  wonder 
if  Margaret  likes  that  Mr.  Traverse.  She  would 
make  an  ideal  minister's  wife  if  she  could  only 
unbend  a  little ;  but  they  say  she  is  going  to  marry 
Guy  Merton.  O,  dear!  I  hope  she  won't.  But 
her  people  are  so  rich  and  proud,  they  never  would 
let  her  marry  a  minister.  There,  they  are  coming 
back." 

As  Margaret  stepped  to  the  porch,  there  was 
a  heightened  color  in  her  cheeks  that  prompted 
Molly  to  say,  wistfully,  "Do  you  like  him, 
Margie  ?" 

Margaret  answered  with  a  pretty  assump- 
tion of  age  and  dignity.  "Do  n't  be  foolish,  child," 
she  said  in  a  superior  way.  "Is  Pansy  asleep? 
Yes?  Miss  Percy  has  bad  news  from  Skoot.  He 


SKOOT  103 

is  arrested  and  locked  up  for  stealing  from  that 
old  miser  whom  we  called  on  with  Miss  Percy. 
There  is  a  long  account  in  the  daily.  It  looks 
black  for  Skoot.  We  must  n't  let  Pansy  know 
of  this,  it  would  make  her  unhappy.  Miss  Percy 
is  going  up  on  the  afternoon  train  to  see  if  any- 
thing can  be  done.  Here  's  Aunt  Jolly  coming 
across  with  a  tumbler  of  jelly  for  Pansy.  Take 
a  seat,  Aunt  Jolly.  It 's  very  warm,  is  n't  it  ?" 

"Mrs.  Traverse  sent  this  to  the  little  girl,"  she 
said,  as  she  seated  herself.  "Sometimes  the  jel 
spoils,  and  you  do  n't  know  it  till  you  taste  it. 
This  looks  all  right,"  peering  into  the  glass,  'Taut — " 

The  shrill  scream  of  an  engine  was  heard  in 
the  distance. 

"Them  steam  cars  are  dangerous  things," 
went  on  Aunt  Jolly.  "I  knew  two  people — men — 
who  were  in  a  steam  car  that  smashed  through  a 
bridge.  It  was  a  dreadful  accident,  dreadful,"  and 
Aunt  Jolly's  handkerchief  came  to  her  eyes.  Here 
was  the  romance  that  Mrs.  Traverse  had  told  to 
the  girls — the  only  love  affair  that  had  ever  con- 
cerned Aunt  Jolly.  The  girls  were  all  sympathy. 

"Did  it— kill  them?"  inquired  Molly. 


104  SKOOT 

"One  of  'em  it  did,"  answered  the  old  lady, 
"and  the  other  it  blew  all  to  pieces;  boiler  ex- 
ploded, you  know." 

"There  's  a  friend  of  Frank's  coming  on  this 
train,"  she  went  on,  after  a  free  use  of  the  hand- 
kerchief; "a  college  friend,  a  lawyer  he  is  now; 
now  I  never  did  have  a  sight  of  confidence  in 
lawyers.  They  're  nice  looking,  most  generally, 
but  their  fingers  is  always  itching  to  get  into 
your  pockets,  and  see  what  they  can  get.  This 
friend  of  Frank's  seems  like  a  nice  young  man, 
but—"  - 

Molly  smiled,  in  spite  of  herself,  as  the  old 
lady  ran  on.  She  was  full  of  suggestions  con- 
cerning Pansy,  telling  of  different  cases  where 
such  and  such  remedies  had  proved  effective. 
They  were  yet  rocking  and  talking  when  Frank 
Traverse  came  up  the  avenue,  his  friend  with  him, 
swinging  a  much-distended  grip,  that  threatened 
to  burst  at  every  step. 

"That 's  him,"  said  Aunt  Jolly,  with  a  bend  of 
her  thumb  in  their  direction ;  "the  lawyer,  Frank's 
friend.  He  looks  like  a  nice  fellow,  now,  do  n't  he  ? 
But,"  with  a  sigh,  "you  never  can  tell,  especially 
about  lawyers." 


SKOOT  105 

Just  then  Pansy  awoke,  and  began  feeling 
along  the  counterpane,  neverously,  with  her  hands. 

"I  want  Skoot,"  she  pleaded,  with  trembling 
lips.  "I  've  been  dreaming  of  Skoot ;  and  how 
kind  he  used  to  be  to  me.  It  seems  as  if  some  one 
was  hurting  him.  Won't  you  tell  Skoot  to  come? 
I  want  Skoot — O,  so  much!" 

Molly  and  Margaret  looked  at  each  other 
across  the  cot.  What  could  they  say  ?  Skoot  was 
in  jail ! 


YES,  Skoot  was  in  trouble.  To  the  bewildered 
boy,  lying  on  his  face  on  the  floor  of  his  cell, 
everything  seemed  confused  and  chaotic.  He 
had  been  in  custody  twenty-four  hours,  and  in  that 
time  had  neither  eaten  nor  slept.  It  had  not  been 
many  days  since  he  had  watched  Pansy  and  her 
friends  off  on  the  train,  and  new  purposes  had  been 
born  in  his  heart.  One  event  had  followed  an- 
other so  rapidly,  and  his  physical  condition  was 
so  weak,  that  he  was  unable  to  trace  the  course 
of  incidents  up  to  the  present  time.  Yet  here  he 
was  a  prisoner,  with  every  probability  of  being  con- 
victed, and  "sent  up"  to  a  reformatory  institution. 
For  the  sake  of  our  reader,  we  will  go  back  a 

little  in  our  narrative — back  to  Guy  Merton,  whom 
1 06 


SKOOT  107 

we  left  in  a  very  uncomfortable  predicament  finan- 
cially. You  remember  that  he  had  followed  Skoot 
to  the  old  miser's  shanty — a  miserable  enough 
place,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town — and,  through 
a  chink  in  the  shutters,  he  had  watched  the  old 
man  sift  and  fondle  and  kiss  his  gold.  He  had 
noted  the  exact  location  of  the  trapdoor,  its  di- 
rection from  the  entrance,  etc. ;  and,  just  as  he 
was  estimating  the  number  of  steps  necessary 
to  reach  it,  Skoot  had  run  against  him,  in  pursuit 
of  the  stray  dog. 

Merton  shook  the  boy  away  angrily.  Skoot 
instantly  recognized  his  patron  with  the  scarred 
face,  but,  beyond  wondering  for  a  moment  why 
such  a  finely-dressed  gentleman  should  be  look- 
ing in  at  old  Martin's  window,  he  thought  noth- 
ing of  it,  and  still  pursued  the  dog,  which  was 
limping  just  ahead. 

But  there  was  evil  in  Merton's  heart,  and  in 
his  head  as  well.  His  rascally  brains  were  well 
adapted  to  project  the  plan  that  came  to  him. 
In  the  first  place,  he  must  have  some  money.  In 
the  second  place,  why  should  he  not  have  the 
miser's?  In  the  third  place,  why  should  not 
Skoot  be  made  to  serve  him  in  getting  it?  He 


108  SKOOT 

could  use  the  boy,  he  told  himself,  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  the  accusation  fall  on  him,  if  on  any 
one;  and  then  he  could  pay  Doddridge  &  Com- 
pany, and  have  time  to  work  up  some  other 
scheme. 

Gradually  his  plan  took  shape  as  he  walked 
along.  Skoot  was  a  few  blocks  ahead  of  him, 
carrying  the  wounded  dog.  The  thought  struck 
Merton  to  follow  him,  and  see  whither  he  went. 
Down  side-streets  and  alleys,  by  many  a  turn  and 
twist,  he  followed,  still  keeping  his  eye  on  Skoot, 
who  was  whistling  merrily.  Finally  the  boy 
dived  down  a  narrow  court,  fouler  and  dirtier 
than  any  Merton  had  ever  seen.  He  passed 
several  doors  in  a  block,  and  finally  turned  in 
at  one  which  stood  open. 

"This,  I  suppose  is  the  dog's  kennel,"  mused 
Merton,  referring  to  the  boy  rather  than  the 
dog,  as  might  be  supposed.  "Ye  gods!  what  a 
hole!  But  he  is  coming  out  again,  and  a  beldam 
behind  him." 

Sure  enough,  Skoot's  sister-in-law  was  bear- 
ing down  on  him  with  a  broom,  with  which  she 
was  vigorously  belaboring  him  over  the  head  and 
shoulders!  "Throw  the  cur  into  the  river,"  she 


SKOOT  109 

screamed;  "ain't  it  enough  ter  feed  yer,  without 
yer  bringin'  home  a  howlin'  cur?  Take  that,  an' 
that,  an'  that,"  emphasizing  her  pronouns  with 
violent  blows  on  the  boy's  bent  head;  "an'  off 
with  yer,  I  say!  If  yer  drown  yerself  as  well  as 
the  cur,  so  much  the  better !" 

"I  guess  that 's  right,"  muttered  Skoot,  bend- 
ing over  the  dog  to  prevent  the  blows  from  fall- 
ing on  the  poor  beast.  "I  guess  that 's  right. 
I  '11  take  you  to  Sukey.  She  '11  take  care  of  you 
a  while  until  I  'm  ready  ter  git  out  o'  this." 

Skoot  passed  on,  never  noticing  the  observer 
around  the  corner.  When  the  boy  had  gone 
from  sight,  Merton  muffled  his  neck  and  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  in  a  handkerchief,  and  advanced 
into  the  court,  where  he  knocked  at  the  door  that 
the  woman  had  entered. 

She  answered  the  summons  herself,  and  seemed 
much  disconcerted  at  the  elegance  of  her  guest. 
She  smoothed  her  apron  with  her  big,  red  hands, 
and  twisted  her  hair,  which,  in  the  late  encounter 
with  Skoot,  had  assumed  a  more  belligerent  aspect 
than  usual.  Merton's  smile  resulted  in  her  almost 
utter  stupefaction. 

"May  I  come  in,  my  good  woman?"  he  asked. 


no  SKOOT 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  the  boy  who  has 
just  gone  out." 

"A  young  villain,"  said  the  woman,  angrily. 
"He  '11  be  hung  yet,  an'  that  I  Ve  told  him  often. 
If  his  head  war  n't  harder  'n  a  doorpost,  it  'u'd  have 
been  broken  long  ago." 

By  this  time  Merton  was  within.  Such  a  place 
as  it  was !  He  could  hardly  breathe.  Cabbage- 
leaves  mingled  with  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  and 
a  steaming  kettle  of  this  vegetable  simmered  on 
the  broken  stove.  There  were  only  two  chairs 
in  the  room,  one  supported  by  three  legs,  the 
other  by  two.  With  an  eye  to  self-preservation, 
Merton  propped  the  one  of  three  legs  against  the 
wall,  and  made  a  show  of  sitting  in  it,  not  daring 
to  trust  his  weight  upon  the  inclined  seat. 

"The  boy  Soot,  or  Shoot,  or  Skoot,"  he  be- 
gan, smoothly,  "is  he — ah — your  boy?" 

"Does  he  look  like  he  was?"  retorted  the 
woman.  "Is  my  hair  red?  Has  my  man  got  red 
hair,  like  the  boy's?  Look  you,  there  he  lays/' 
throwing  open  the  door  of  a  closet,  and  disclos- 
ing the  figure  of  a  man  in  a  drunken  sleep ;  "how 
then,  could  the  boy  belong  to  us,  I  say?  Skoot 
is  my  man's  brother ;  livin'  an'  feedin'  on  us." 


SKOOT  in 

"Has  he  any  father?"  was  Merton's  next  ques- 
tion. "No?  Mother  dead  too,  I  suppose?" 

"He  's  got  nobody  but  his  brother  there,"  re- 
joined the  woman ;  "an'  he  ain't  wuth  his  salt,  he 
ain't.  If  I  hed  my  way,  he  'd  never  come  back 
here  no  more.  Eatin'  other  people's  victuals  an' 
takin'  up  their  room !" 

"No  one  to  ask  any  questions  if  he  should  n't 
come  back  any  more,  eh?  If  he  should  run  away, 
or  fall  into  the  river,  or  get  run  over  on  the  track, 
or  get  locked  up,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  eh  ?" 

"Good  riddance,  good  riddance !  I  hate  the 
sight  of  the  boy,  all  arms  and  legs.  Bah !" 

"Take  this,  my  good  woman,"  he  said,  rising 
and  pressing  a  silver  piece  into  her  hand.  "I  hope 
you  and  your  man  will  enjoy  it.  Good-day."  And 
he  left  her  gaping  speechlessly  after  him. 

"Now  the  next  thing,"  he  soliloquized,  "is  to 
find  Skoot.  You  're  quite  sharp,  my  young  friend, 
especially  as  to  knees  and  elbows ;  but  I  think  I 
can  handle  you  all  right.  Now  to  watch  until  you 
come  back.  While  I  'm  waiting,  I  may  as  well  get 
ready." 

He  took  a  blank  envelope  from  his  pocket, 
sealed  it,  and  placed  it  inside  his  waistcoat.  Then 


H2  SKOOT 

he  waited  one,  three,  five  hours,  until  it  was  quite 
dark.  Finally,  just  as  he  decided  to  wait  until  the 
next  day  for  the  furtherance  of  his  plans,  Skoot 
rounded  the  corner. 

Merton  stepped  up  to  him,  and  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Do  you  want  to  earn  a  dollar,  boy?"  he  in- 
quired. "Yes,  of  course,  any  bright  boy  would. 
Will  you  take  this  letter  to  the  street  and  number 
I  will  tell  you  ?  It 's  for  my  uncle,  and  this  mes- 
sage is  important.  He  '11  be  much  put  out  if  he 
does  n't  get  it  to-night." 

"Sure,"  answered  Skoot.  "Who  's  yer  uncle, 
an'  where  does  he  live  ?" 

"Some  ways  around  that  corner — Mr.  Martin, 
Martin  the  miser,  people  call  him.  You  know 
where  he  lives.  Be  sure  you  give  this  letter  into 
his  own  hands.  I  'd  go  myself,  but  there  's  a 
fellow  waiting  for  me  down  town.  I  '11  give  you 
the  dollar  now,"  he  said,  handing  the  silver  coin 
to  him.  "If  my  uncle  has  gone  to  bed  you  must 
make  him  get  up.  Understand?" 

"He  ain't  yer  uncle,  though,"  said  Skoot, 
shrewdly;  "though  I'll  take  yer  letter  all  right," 
and  off  he  skimmed  around  a  corner. 


SKOOT  113 

A  dollar  seemed  a  large  amount  to  Skoot. 
More  than  this,  he  had  decided  to  turn  his  back 
upon  Pinch  Alley  for  all  time,  and  try  his  fortunes 
elsewhere.  A  dollar  was  a  better  start  than  many 
great  men  had  had,  he  had  heard  the  people  say 
at  the  mission.  Moreover,  it  was  a  dark,  starless 
night,  and  Merton's  face  had  been  so  muffled  that 
the  boy  never  suspected  who  he  was,  and  thus  fell 
readily  into  the  trap. 

Off  he  darted,  giving  Merton  all  he  could  do  to 
follow  him.  Dodging  in  front  of  cable-cars  and 
cabs,  and  other  such  vehicles  as  were  out  at  that 
hour,  finally  he  turned  down  a  darker  and  less  fre- 
quented street.  On  and  still  on,  until  he  stood  in 
front  of  Uncle  Martin's  cottage.  The  house  was 
dark,  and  yet,  after  a  little,  a  crack  of  light  showed 
through  the  shutters. 

Skoot  pounded  at  the  door.  "Uncle  Mart ; 
I  say,  Uncle  Mart,  let  me  in ;  I  Ve  got  something 
for  you.  It 's  me — Skoot  Higgins.  I  've  got  a 
letter  ter  give  yer!" 

"Confound    the    boy !      He 's    back    after    the 

money    I    promised    him,"    muttered    the    miser. 

"But  I  won't  give  it  to  him.    I  '11  give  him — ha — 

a  penny !    Are  you  alone,  Skoot  ?"  he  called,  in  a 

8 


H4  SKOOT 

smoother  voice,  his  lips  to  the  keyhole.  "Are  you 
sure  you  're  alone  ?  There  ain't  any  boys,  now, 
or—" 

"All  alone,"  answered  the  boy.  "Come,  hurry 
up,  or  I  must  be  movin'.  Ah!"  as  the  creaking 
bolt  was  withdrawn,  disclosing  the  old  man  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand.  "A  feller  in  the  street  give 
me  this  ter  give  you — must  have  been  a  ten- 
derfoot, or  he  would  n't  have  give  me  a  dollar 
without  knowin'  as  I  had  done  it.  If  it  had  n't 
been  for  you,  I  'd  ha'  cut  with  the  dollar,  and — ' 

But  just  what  he  would  have  done  Skoot  did 
not  have  time  to  say,  for  as  the  miser  out- 
stretched his  trembling  hand  for  the  letter,  the 
candle  was  suddenly  struck  from  his  hand,  and 
they  were  in  darkness.  Having  seen  only  Skoot, 
the  old  man  struggled  wildly  with  him,  while  he 
called  madly  for  help. 

It  was  not  long  in  coming.  Voices  were  heard 
in  the  street,  in  the  yard.  In  a  few  moments  there 
were  people  and  lights  in  the  room.  The  lifted 
trapdoor  was  revealed  in  the  floor.  With  a  howl 
the  old  man  dug  his  hand  down  into  the  aperture. 
His  money  was  gone!  He  tore  his  hair  and 


SKOOT  115 

flesh,  and  would  have  fallen,  shrieking,  upon  the 
bewildered  Skoot,  and  torn  him  limb  from  limb, 
but  for  the  intervention  of  the  people  who  had 
flocked  to  the  scene. 

It  was  plain  that  Uncle  Martin  had  been 
robbed.  It  was  equally  plain  that  Skoot  had  an  ac- 
complice who  had  made  off  with  the  money  while 
Skoot  held  the  old  man.  It  had  been  quick  work, 
but  successful,  for  not  a  single  piece  of  the  miser's 
hoard  could  be  found.  Merton's  plan  had  worked 
well.  He  was  even  then  some  blocks  away.  But 
in  the  yard  he  had  run  into  a  stupid  Irish  woman 
hastening  toward  the  scene  of  the  outcry,  and 
she  had  swung  the  lantern  full  in  his  face.  But 
he  had  the  box  concealed  beneath  his  coat.  Slack- 
ening his  pace  as  he  neared  the  more  brilliantly- 
lighted  streets,  he  boarded  a  car,  and  leisurely 
smoked  a  cigar  on  the  platform. 

But  how  about  Skoot  ?  Set  upon  and  borne  to 
the  ground  by  two  burly  men,  the  marks  of  the 
miser's  fingers  on  his  face  and  neck,  blood  pouring 
profusely  from  his  nose,  he  found  himself  the  cen- 
ter of  an  excited  crowd,  all  of  whom  were  noisily 
shouting  directions  as  to  what  should  be  done. 


u6  SKOOT 

"Faith,  an'  he 's  a  disperrit  character,"  said 
one  of  the  self-appointed  custodians.  "It 's  a 
wonder  he  did  n't  kill  the  old  man  intoirely !" 

"He  says  he  will  the  next  time,"  answered  the 
other,  who  sat  on  Skoot's  chest,  while  his  com- 
panion sat  on  the  boy's  feet.  "It 's  all  I  can  do 
to  kape  him  down.  He  's  an  awful  vilyun.  I  'm 
that  scared  every  moment  fur  fear  he  '11  be  stab- 
bin'  me !" 

Between  the  suffocation  caused  by  the  press- 
ure on  his  lungs  and  various  hurts  and  bruises, 
to  which  nearly  every  one  present  had  contributed, 
Skoot  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  strangled  then  and 
there,  to  say  nothing  of  the  physical  impossi- 
bility of  his  being  able  to  speak  at  all.  Perhaps  be- 
tween them  they  would  have  suffocated  him,  but 
for  a  new  presence,  before  which  the  people  fell 
back,  and  a  voice  of  authority,  as  a  policeman  ad- 
vanced through  the  crowd. 

"Make  way  there,  way!"  he  cried.  "So  this 
is  the  thief,  is  it  ?  Well,  my  boy,  we  '11  give  you 
a  little  ride ;  won't  cost  you  a  cent,"  and  he  merci- 
fully knocked  the  burly  guards  aside,  and  lifted 
the  choking,  gasping,  blinded  boy  to  his  feet. 

The  people  in  the  street  paused  to  look  after 


SKOOT  117 

the  ambulance,  as  it  tore  madly  along,  the  horses 
rearing  and  foaming,  and,  within,  the  form  of  a 
boy  securely  held  by  two  big  policemen. 

"Only  a  child !  I  wonder  what  he  has  done," 
said  some  of  the  more  sympathetic,  and  then 
passed  on,  to  forget  all  about  it.  And  Skoot  was 
pulled  out,  and  questioned,  and  replied  wildly 
and  much  to  his  disadvantage.  Then  he  was 
rushed  off  to  a  cell,  there  to  throw  himself  upon 
the  floor,  and  wonder  what  it  all  meant.  And  all 
this  while  Pansy  moaned  and  tossed  upon  her  cot 
at  Idlewood,  calling  incessantly  for  Skoot,  Skoot, 
Skoot ! 


TT)  ANSY'S  condition  was  steadily  growing 
-••  more  serious.  The  fever  burned  like  fire  in 
her  cheeks.  The  physician  whom  Miss  Percy 
had  consulted  was  hastily  summoned,  and  looked 
very  grave  as  he  stood  by  the  tossing  little  form. 
Mrs.  Traverse  and  Aunt  Jolly  were  often  at  the 
cottage,  doing  all  in  their  power  to  alleviate  the 
suffering.  Frank  had  brought  his  friend,  Ralph 
Warham,  as  far  as  the  porch  for  a  barely  cere- 
monious call. 

Much  of  the  time  Pansy  lived  over  the  wretched 
alley  life,  in  pitiful  delirium.  Again  she  talked 
of  her  new  friends,  always  with  the  prayer  that 
they  might  know  Jesus,  and  love  him.  Yet  un- 
derneath all  was  the  reiterated  cry  for  Skoot. 

On  the  porch  without  Ralph  Warham  heard 
118 


SKOOT  119 

the  word,  so  often  repeated,  and  always  with  such 
intense  longing.  She  did  not  know  any  of  them 
now,  kiss  her,  weep  over  her,  as  they  would.  But 
she  begged  Skoot  to  bring  her  water — cold,  cold 
water — she  was  so  thirsty. 

"Who  or  what  is  Skoot?"  Warham  asked 
Dora,  who  had  gone  outside,  unable  to  endure  any 
longer  the  strain  on  heart  and  nerves.  "She  calls 
continually  for  Skoot.  I  can  even  hear  her  in  Mrs. 
Traverse's  cottage." 

And  Dora  told  him  all  she  knew  of  Skoot,  and 
why  they  did  not  send  for  him.  Miss  Percy,  com- 
ing out  at  that  moment,  supplemented  Dora's 
account  as  best  she  could. 

Mr.  Warham  was  deeply  interested.  "I  am  half 
inclined,"  he  confided  to  Traverse  that  evening, 
"to  take  the  midnight  train  back  to  the  city,  and 
try  to  unravel  this.  The  child  will  die,  of  course, 
but  the  doctor  expects  her  to  rally,  and  be  con- 
scious for  a  while.  The  boy  ought  to  be  here. 
Yes,  I  '11  go  back,  and  find  out  what  I  can  about 
the  case.  There  are  some  peculiar  features.  If 
the  boy  worked  with  any  one  else,  it  was  as  a  tool, 
not  an  accomplice.  Aside  from  sympathetic  in- 
terest, my  professional  curiosity  is  aroused." 


120  SKOOT 

So  it  happened  that  when  the  12.15  train  pulled 
out  that  still,  summer  night,  Ralph  Warham  was 
the  solitary  passenger  to  board  it.  He  stepped 
from  it  just  as  the  gray  dawn  was  breaking  over 
the  great  city. 

He  found  enough  to  do  that  first  day.  A  visit 
to  the  jail,  where  an  interview  with  Skoot  only  in- 
tensified the  interest  that  he  already  felt  in  the 
case ;  a  second  visit  to  Pinch  Alley,  and  a  third  to 
the  miser's  house. 

He  found  Martin  in  a  frenzy  bordering  on 
madness.  His  imprecations  against  Skoot  were 
swift  and  terrible.  There  was  an  Irishwoman 
present — a  stout,  good-natured  creature,  with  a 
florid  face  and  a  pleasing  brogue — who  listened 
intently  to  all  the  conversation  that  passed  be- 
tween the  two. 

When  Warham  had  learned  all  he  could  of 
Martin,  Mrs.  O'Flannigan  followed  him  outside. 

"It 's  not  carin'  I  am  to  be  brought  into  the 
likes  of  this,"  she  said,  "but  sure  the  poor  bye  is 
that  sick  and  spent  that  it 's  all  afther  goin'  ag'inst 
him  intoirely.  It 's  little  I  have  to  say  at  all,  at 
all,  but  I  've  heard  it  said  as  you  lawyer-men  can 
make  a  great  dale  out  o'  nothin'.  Sure,  says  I, 


SKOOT  121 

that  bein'  the  case,  ye  might  be  able  to  make 
something  out  of  a  little.  I  'm  moved  to  spake 
to  ye  of  my  soospicions.  To  begin,  then,  the  day 
of  the  robbery,  do  yer  mind,  I  was  comin'  home 
from  Mrs.  Wener's,  where  I  washes  onct  a  week. 
It 's  a  short  cut  through  old  Martin's  back  yard, 
and  used  considerable,  as  ye  can  see  by  the  path 
throd  down  through  the  wades.  Jist  as  I  was 
nearin'  the  house  I  spied  a  man  lookin'  in  at  the 
west  windy — sure  there  's  no  houses  or  neighbors 
on  that  side  at  all,  as  ye  can  see  yerself  by  lookin'." 

"What  did  he  look  like?"  asked  Warham. 

"Wan  o'  them  illegant  dressed  fellers,  wid  a 
watch-charrum  big  as  a  turnip.  Faith,  says  I,  but 
that 's  strange.  He  turned  around  just  then,  and 
I  see  his  face." 

"Can  you  describe  him  at  all? — height,  size, 
complexion?" 

"There  's  just  wan  thing  I  can  tell  for  sure. 
Indade,  there  's  two.  He  was  a  smallish  sort  of 
a  feller,  and  right  here,"  indicating  her  cheek,  "was 
a  long,  dark  scar-r." 

"An'  that 's  not  all,"  she  went  on,  as  Warham 
would  have  spoken.  "Hear  me  a  bit ;  for  that 
night,  what  wid  the  old  man  a-scramin',  and  the 


122  SKOOT 

folks  a-rushin',  says  I  to  meself,  says  I,  'Bridget, 
yez  must  be  afther  findin'  out  what  all  this  scrim- 
mage is  about.'  We  kape  a  pig,  and  a  cow,  and 
some  chickens  and  gase,  along  wid  old  Mike,  the 
horse,  and,  sure,  I  was  in  the  barn  when  I  heard 
all  the  shoutin'  and  noise.  Runnin'  out,  suddint 
like,  a  feller  runs  inter  me,  fit  to  knock  me  down, 
save  that  he  was  that  little  and  I  that  big.  'Whist,' 
says  I,  'can't  ye  see  a  body  at  all?'  says  I,  and  I 
swung  the  lantern  I  was  afther  carryin'  full  in  his 
face.  Sure,  by  the  saints,  it  was  the  same  feller, 
him  wid  the  scar-r !" 

Unlike  many  witnesses,  the  longer  the  honest 
woman  talked  the  clearer  became  her  information. 
After  enjoining  silence  upon  her,  Warham  hurried 
back  to  the  jail  to  interview  Skoot.  He  found  the 
boy  with  a  clearer  head  and  more  able  to  talk. 
Questioning  him  closely,  he  drew  from  him  all  he 
knew  of  the  man  with  the  marked  face.  Warham 
decided  that  the  man  must  be  found.  His  identifi- 
cation by  Skoot  and  Mrs.  O'Flannigan  might  be 
the  first  thread  in  unraveling  this  tangle. 

It  proved  to  be  a  difficult  undertaking.  He 
visited  clubrooms,  matinees,  waiting-rooms,  but 


SKOOT  123 

could  find  no  trace  of  the  man  he  sought.  He  had 
been  two  days  in  the  city,  and  Miss  Percy  tele- 
graphed him  that  Pansy  was  sinking  rapidly. 
Traverse  also  wrote  him  that  Margaret  would  re- 
turn on  the  evening  train,  to  try  to  enlist  her 
father's  sympathy  in  behalf  of  Skoot.  Warham 
decided  to  meet  her  at  the  depot,  and  co-operate 
with  her  in  her  efforts  to  at  least  secure  bail  for 
the  prisoner. 

Warham  advanced  from  the  waiting-room  just 
as  she  stepped  from  the  train.  But  the  next  in- 
stant he  fell  back,  for  here  was  the  fellow  with 
the  scarred  face  calmly  appropriating  both  the 
young  lady  and  her  belongings. 

"Your  mother  told  me  you  were  coming  to- 
night," Warham  heard  him  say,  as  he  hailed  a  cab, 
"else  I  should  not  have  known.  How  can  you  be 
so  cruel?" 

Warham  stood  gazing  after  the  retreating  cab. 
"Well,  I  'm  beat,"  he  ejaculated,  with  more  em- 
phasis than  elegance.  He  rubbed  his  forehead  and 
pinched  himself  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not 
dreaming.  By  degrees  it  became  settled  in  his 
mind  that  there  was  some  understanding  between 


124  SKOOT 

Miss  Doane  and  this  fellow,  whom  he  felt  sure 
was  the  man  he  was  seeking. 

That  evening  he  called  at  the  Doane  mansion, 
and  had  a  guarded  conversation  with  Margaret 
and  her  father.  He  was  secretly  gratified  to  learn 
of  Margaret's  feelings  towards  Merton.  The  next 
morning  he  rang  the  Merton  bell,  and  was  ad- 
mitted by  the  melancholy  footman.  In  the  indica- 
tions of  wealth  around  him,  Merton's  motive  in 
robbing  the  old  man  seemed  inexplicable.  He 
was  genuinely  puzzled,  and  by  the  time  the  young 
man  himself  appeared  was  almost  convinced  that 
he  was  on  the  wrong  track. 

Warham  presented  a  note  from  Mr.  Doane,  in 
which  he  casually  asked  Merton  to  visit  the  old 
miser  with  the  messenger,  and  look  up  the  "facts 
in  the  case."  Under  a  show  of  sympathy  for  Mar- 
tin, and  in  deference  to  Margaret's  father,  Merton 
reluctantly  assented. 

"Confound  old  Doane,"  he  muttered,  fiercely, 
as  he  was  preparing  for  this  unpleasant  errand; 
"why  need  he  mix  up  with  this?  Professional 
curiosity  be  hanged!  Well,  old  Martin  never  saw 
me,  and  hence  can  not  possibly  recognize  me.  So 
it 's  safe  enough,  after  all." 


SKOOT  125 

Mrs.  O'Flannigan  admitted  the  two  gentlemen. 
Merton  was  very  bold,  knowing  that  Skoot  was 
locked  up,  and  that  he  had  no  friends  to  sift  the 
matter  for  him.  He  expressed  great  sympathy 
for  Martin,  and  trusted  that  those  who  were  con- 
cerned in  his  misfortune  might  be  speedily  brought 
to  justice. 

Both  Martin  and  Ralph  were  completely  de- 
ceived. Not  so  Mrs.  Flannigan. 

Her  honest  Irish  heart  threatened  to  burst 
against  its  calico  casements;  every  time  she 
thought  of  Skoot,  helpless  in  his  cell,  her  anger 
waxed  hotter  and  hotter. 

"Ye  've  never  been  out  in  this  neighborhood 
before  ?"  she  said  to  Merton,  after  a  pause  in  which 
she  showed  unmistakable  symptoms  of  choking. 
"Sure,  such  a  foine  gintleman  would  have  no 
r'ason  for  comin'  into  such  a  poor  place.  An'  did 
ye  never  hear  of  Pinch  Alley,  ayther,  an'  was  ye 
never  there  ?" 

Merton  glanced  at  her  with  a  quick  suspicion, 
but  he  saw  only  a  stout,  stupid,  coarse-handed 
woman  who  was  evidently  a  victim  to  asthma  or 
some  such  disease. 

"Pinch  Alley?"  he  repeated,  lightly.    "I  do  not 


126  SKOOT 

know  such  a  locality.  Pray,  madam,  have  you 
friends  in  Pinch  Alley?" 

"I  have  that,"  she  replied,  grimly.  "There  's 
wan  of  thim  in  the  room  beyant  as  would  like  to 
see  ye.  Now  then,  Mrs.  Heegins,"  as  the  door 
opened  and  Skoot's  amiable  sister-in-law  appeared 
on  the  scene,  "do  ye  look  well  at  this  blatherin' 
spalpeen,  an'  tell  me,  did  ye  ever  see  his  oogly 
face  before  ?" 

The  newcomer  leveled  her  smutty  forefinger  at 
Merton  with  an  expression  of  disdain.  "Did  I?" 
she  said.  "Did  n't  he  come  to  my  house  and  give 
me  money  for  telling  him  about  Skoot?  An' 
did  n't  my  man  beat  me  till  I  give  him  the  money, 
and  never  a  drink  did  I  get  out  of  it?  O  yes,  I 
remember  him,  and  his  visit,  by  the  beatin'  I  got 
afterwards.  Look  at  him  now !  He  's  the  color 
of  a  punkin'!  Ask  him  now  did  he  ever  come  to 
Pinch  Alley  with  a  muffler  over  his  face!" 

In  fact,  Merton  was  quailing  perceptibly  before 
this  unexpected  onslaught ;  but  he  rallied  his  wits, 
and  prepared  to  laugh  it  out  of  court.  This  igno- 
rant woman — what  was  her  testimony  worth? 

"You  have  a  great  imagination,  my  good 
woman,"  he  ?^id,  mockingly ;  "a  great  imagination, 


SKOOT  127 

since  I  have  been  out  of  town  for  nearly  a  week, 
and  only  returned  yesterday.  I  should  have  no 
trouble  to  prove  that.  So  have  a  care,  have  a 
care." 

Then  he  turned  to  Warham.  "Now,  as  this  in- 
teresting performance  has  lasted  long  enough,  and 
as  I  deferred  business  of  importance  to  accommo- 
date the  gentleman  who  desired  me  to  make  this 
call,  I  will  go." 

But  he  had  not  counted  on  Mrs.  O'Flannigan's 
two  hundred  avoirdupois,  which  completely  filled 
the  doorway,  and  effectually  blocked  his  way. 

"Perhaps  ye  do  n't  remember,  ayther,  of  run- 
ning into  somebody  in  the  yard  wid  a  lantern  the 
night  the  old  man  was  robbed?  I  saw  ye,  plain, 
an'  I  'd  swear  to  yer  coontenance  in  any  court  in 
the  land.  Perhaps,  again,  ye  do  n't  remimber  of 
standin'  at  old  Martin's  windy  the  day  wid  yer 
face  to  a  crack?  I  see  yez  then,  an'  there  's  others 
as  stand  ready  to  swear  to  yer  oidentitee." 

"Others?"  repeated  Merton,  weakly.  "Others? 
What  do  you  mean?  Are  you  crazy?  What  is 
all  this  about  ?" 

"Others  is  what  I  said,"  repeated  the  woman, 
grimly.  "Others !"  She  crossed  herself  rapidly, 


128  SKOOT 

muttering-  beneath  her  breath,  "May  the  saints  for- 
give me !  It 's  to  save  the  poor  bye  as  did  no 
harm." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  began  to  count 
the  ringers  on  it.  "There  was  Pedro  Carpi,  the 
fruit-dealer,  who  was  restin'  his  horses  in  the  shade 
beyant.  That 's  wan.  Then  there  was  Johnny 
Derby,  the  carpenter,  jist  comin'  to  his  house  fur 
a  box  of  nails  he  forgot.  That 's  two.  Then  there 
was  Jake  Flint,  him  as  kapes  the  blacksmith-shop 
jist  beyant.  That 's  three.  Then  there  was  me  old 
man,  Tom  O'Flannigan,  bringin'  me  the  washin' 
ag'inst  the  next  day.  That 's  four.  Then  there 
was — " 

"Stop!  stop!"  said  the  now  thoroughly  fright- 
ened Merton.  "These  people  that  you  mention — 
what  did  they  see?  They  did  not  see — me?" 

"That  they  did,  ivery  last  wan  of  thim,"  as- 
sured the  woman,  with  another  mental  petition  for 
pardon.  "An'  they  stand  ready  to  say  so  at  the 
roight  time  and  place.  Ah !"  leveling  a  scornful 
finger  at  Merton,  who  was  trembling  visibly,  "ye  'd 
lay  it  onter  the  bye,  would  ye  ?  On  the  poor  bye, 
wid  no  one  to  fight  fur  him !  But  ye  did  n't  count 
on  Bridget  O'Flannigan,  that  ye  did  n't !" 


SKOOT  129 

"It 's  all  up,  Merton,"  spoke  Warham,  quietly. 
"You  must  submit  to  arrest.  Your  motive  is  a 
mystery  to  me,  but  the  law  must  take  its  course, 
and  these  witnesses  be  heard.  Officer,  do  your 
duty." 

A  gentleman,  in  civilian's  dress,  now  advanced 
from  the  doorway,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
shrinking  Merton's  shoulder. 

"I  was  employed  by  Mr.  Doane  to  run  this 
game  down,"  he  said ;  "but  how  well  I  should  have 
succeeded,  but  for  Mrs.  O'Flannigan  yonder,  I 
could  not  say.  But,  my  friend,  you  must  agree 
to  my  company  for  a  while." 

"There  is  one  way,  perhaps,  that  this  may  be 
stopped  before  going  much  further,"  said  War- 
ham,  glancing  at  Martin,  who  was  nearly  stupefied 
from  amazement.  "If  the  money  were  to  be  re- 
turned, perhaps  the  old  man  would  withdraw  his 
charges  against  Skoot.  What  do  you  say,  Uncle 
Martin?  If  you  had  your  money  back  you  would 
not  prosecute  the  boy — he  did  not  rob  you,  you 
know — and  would  you  give  this  fellow  a  chance  to 
get  out  of  town?" 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  vigorously,  un- 
able to  speak.  "Meanwhile."  said  the  officer  to 
9 


130  SKOOT 

Merton,  "we  will  keep  company  until  the  money 
is  restored." 

Before  nightfall  Martin  was  again  in  possession 
of  his  hoard.  No  words  of  Warham  or  any  one 
else  could  induce  him  to  put  it  in  safe  deposit. 
He  must  have  his  gold  where  he  could  see  it, 
touch  it,  and  only  wished  that  they  might  all  be 
gone  that  he  could  be  alone  with  it  again. 


WARHAM  was  not  able  to  gain  admittance 
to  the  jail  until  the  next  morning.  Mean- 
while the  necessary  steps  in  the  legal  procedure 
towards  Skoot's  release  had  been  accomplished, 
largely  through  Mr.  Doane's  influence.  At  nine 
o'clock  the  next  day  the  heavy  doors  swung  open. 
Skoot  was  free. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  realize  the  quick  re- 
versal of  experiences  that  had  been  his  during 
the  last  few  days.  Neither  his  brother  nor  sister- 
in-law  had  visited  him  in  his  confinement.  As  he 
thought  of  Pinch  Alley  he  set  his  teeth  hard.  No, 
he  would  never  go  back  there — never,  never.  But 
what  next? 

Warham's  first  move  was  to  take  his  boy  to 
131 


132  SKOOT 

a  restaurant  and  provide  him  what  Skoot  called 
"a  square."  Going  from  there,  they  came  to 
a  brilliantly-lighted  saloon,  glittering  with  rich  fur- 
nishings— a  saloon  of  a  very  different  appearance 
from  those  with  which  Skoot  was  familiar.  The 
massive  chandeliers  were  reflected  in  paneled  mir- 
rors that  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling;  crystal 
sparkled  on  marble  tables ;  an  open  piano  stood  in 
an  attractive  corner,  and  white-aproned  waiters 
flew  here  and  there. 

Warham  paused,  and  slapped  Skoot  familiarly 
on  the  shoulder.  "Come  in  and  have  a  drink," 
he  said;  "I '11  stand/' 

"No,  sir-ree,"  was  the  emphatic  rejoinder;  "I 
know  what  that  stuff  '11  do.  None  o'  that  fur  me." 

Warham  laughed  delightedly  at  the  result  of 
his  experiment  in  testing  him.  "Stick  to  your  con- 
victions, Skoot,"  he  said,  "and  you  '11  make  a  man 
yet,  in  spite  of  Pinch  Alley." 

A  bath  at  the  rooms  of  the  Young  Men's  Chris- 
tian Association,  where  Warham  seemed  to  be 
well  acquainted,  a  visit  to  the  clothing  and  shoe 
stores,  thence  to  the  barber's,  where  the  stubby 
red  hair  was  cut  and  oiled  and  coaxed  into  proper 
shape,  and  the  transformation  wrought  in  Skoot 


SKOOT  133 

was  almost  as  great  as  that  wrought  in  Pansy.  He 
walked  along  with  his  new  friend,  thinking  much 
and  saying  little,  until  Warham  turned  in  at  the 
Union  Station.  Then  he  drew  back  in  suspicion, 
and  eyed  Warham  distrustfully. 

"Where  yer  takin'  me?"  he  demanded.  "This 
game  ain't  plain." 

"It 's  all  right,"  answered  Warham,  who  by  this 
time  had  become  deeply  interested  in  his  protege ; 
"you  are  going  to  new  friends,  who  will  help  you 
to  make  a  man  of  yourself,  and  to — Pansy.  She 
is  very  sick,  and  has  called  for  you  night  and  day. 
Tickets  for  Idlewood,  two,"  he  said  to  the  man 
behind  the  glass,  at  the  same  time  pushing  the 
change  under  the  window.  "Quick,  Skoot,  that 's 
our  train." 

They  were  not  much  more  than  seated,  and  the 
train  fairly  under  way,  when  the  inevitable  news- 
boy made  his  appearance.  "Evening  pape's,  all 
the  evening  pape's,  Herald,  Star,  Beacon,  Globe.  All 
about  the  big  failure,  and  the  suicide." 

Warham  bought  a  paper,  and  ran  his  eyes  down 
the  staring  headlines.  Merton,  Sr.,  the  million- 
aire broker,  had  shot  himself  in  the  bathroom  of 
his  house.  His  affairs  were  badly  complicated, 


134  SKOOT 

and  involved  many  others  in  ruin.  The  widow  and 
son  were  penniless. 

There  were  sad  hearts  at  Idlewood.  Pansy  had 
been  steadily  sinking  all  day.  Miss  Percy  had 
wired  the  child's  father  of  Pansy's  condition,  yet 
secretly  hoping  that  he  would  not  come.  The  doc- 
tor had  been  at  the  little  cottage  all  day.  So  had 
Mrs.  Traverse  and  Aunt  Jolly,  who  in  this  hour 
dropped  all  her  oddities,  and  was  only  a  plain,  kind- 
hearted  woman,  of  large  sympathy.  Ralph  War- 
ham  had  not  returned;  but  they  had  received  a 
message  from  him,  and  were  expecting  him  that 
evening. 

Pansy  was  still  delirious,  but  quieter  than  she 
had  been.  Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down  in  a 
glory  of  purple  and  gold,  royal  as  for  the  corona- 
tion of  a  soul,  she  called  for  Miss  Percy.  The 
deaconess  was  close  at  her  side. 

"I  'm  here,  Pansy  darling,"  she  said,  tenderly 
pressing  the  little  hand;  "and  so  are  Molly  and 
Margaret  and  Dora,  waiting  for  you  to  speak  to 
them.  We  have  been  with  you  a  long  time,  but 
you  did  not  know  us." 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  and  tell  them,"  faltered  the 
thin  little  voice,  "how  much  I  thank  you  all  for 


SKOOT  135 

being  so  kind — to  me.  It 's  almost  time  for  Jesus 
to  come  and  take  me.  Is  it  night  now?  Do  you 
think  he  will  come  to-night?" 

They  were  all  weeping  silently,  and  only  Frank 
Traverse  found  voice  to  answer  her. 

"It  will  soon  be  morning  for  you,  dear  child," 
he  answered,  with  marked  tenderness.  "You  shall 
see  the  sunlight  on  the  everlasting  hills.  'There 
shall  be  no  night  there.  And  there  shall  be  no 
more  death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying;  neither 
shall  there  be  any  more  pain.' " 

The  solemn  change  that  those  who  have  looked 
on  death  may  recognize  was  overspreading  her 
face. 

"What  is  it,  Pansy  ?  What  is  it  you  want  ?"  for 
her  hands  were  groping,  groping,  groping. 

"The  girls,"  she  whispered;  "tell  them  to 
kneel — beside  me — so  they  can  see  Jesus — when 
he  comes.  I  want  them  to  love  Jesus — they  can 
do  so  much  for  him.  I  could  not  do  anything — 
if  I  staid — only  a  little  blind  girl.  There,"  as  they 
knelt  around  her,  "do  n't  cry,  do  n't  cry.  I  shall 
be  so — happy — when  Jesus  comes." 

She  stopped  for  breath,  though  the  night 
breeze  came  to  them  from  woods  and  lake.  They 


136  SKOOT 

had  brought  the  cot  out  to  the  porch,  that  she 
might  breathe  more  easily,  and  the  wind  stirred 
the  damp  rings  of  hair  on  her  forehead. 

After  a  little  she  moved  slightly.  "Sing,"  she 
whispered,  "sing  of  heaven." 

How  hard  it  was!  Deep  in  the  heart  of  each 
of  the  girls  was  the  realization  of  overwhelming 
human  helplessness;  but  with  a  quick  seeking  of 
help,  Miss  Percy  softly  started  the  hymn  she  had 
heard  Pansy  sing  to  the  children  of  Pinch  Alley — 
the  gentle  mother's  hymn.  One  by  one  the  other 
voices  joined  in. 

"  My  heavenly  home  is  bright  and  fair, 
Nor  pain  nor  death  can  enter  there  ; 
Its  glittering  towers  the  sun  outshine, 
That  heavenly  mansion  shall  be  mine." 

They  looked  up  at  the  stars,  beginning  to  glow 
in  the  sky  above.  But  the  eyes  on  the  pillow,  with 
a  vision  not  of  earth,  looked  past  star  and  tear- 
mist,  and  beheld  the  lights  in  the  Father's  house 
even  then  shining  forth  her  welcome.  Reverently 
they  sang, 

"My  father's  house  is  built  on  high, 
Far,  far  above  the  starry  sky." 

There  were  hurried  steps  on  the  walk,  and 
Ralph  Warham  was  in  their  midst,  and  Skoot's 


SKOOT  137 

heart  was  breaking  over  the  wasted  little  form  on 
the  cot.  Vainly  she  tried  to  lift  her  arms  to  his 
neck,  whispering  to  him  again  and  again  of  her 
joy.  The  boy  could  not  control  the  great  sobs 
that  shook  him,  and  his  tears  feel  fast. 

"Do  n't  cry,  Skoot ;  dear,  kind  Skoot,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  am  so  glad  to  go,  and  I  will  tell  Jesus — 
how  good  you  were  to  me,  and  how  I  loved  you. 
O,  I  should  not  be  so  happy  if  I  did  not  feel — 
that  I  should  see  you,  every  one,  coming  home 
to  heaven.  Do  n't  forget  little  Pansy.  She  wants 
you  all — to  love — Jesus." 

There  was  a  sinking  movement  of  the  restless 
arms,  a  peace  on  the  groping  hands,  something 
that  sounded  like  a  sigh,  and  all  of  suffering,  of 
poverty,  of  lovelessness,  was  forever  ended  for 
Pansy.  The  child  of  the  tenements  had  become 
the  child  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


ON  a  day  three  years  later  our  girls  were  again 
assembled  in  Margaret's  room.  There  was 
some  sadness,  as  well  as  merriment,  in  this,  the 
last  of  the  meetings  that  had  become  so  dear  to 
them.  The  room  was  in  a  state  of  confusion. 
Drawers  were  thrown  open,  and  trunks,  partly 
packed,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Mar- 
garet was  to  be  married  to  Frank  Traverse. 

The  summer  at  Idlewood  had  wrought  a  won- 
derful change  in  them  all.  From  the  time  of 
solemn  heart-searching  that  followed  Pansy's  death 
Margaret  had  returned  to  her  home  of  elegance 
with  new  motives  and  purposes.  The  life  that  had 
heretofore  been  self-centered  became  Christ-cen- 
tered. All  her  wealth  and  advantages  now  were 
138 


SKOOT  139 

but  opportunities  of  doing  God's  work.  Dora, 
with  the  absoluteness  that  underlies  such  dispo- 
sitions as  hers,  brought  her  consecrated  culture 
to  the  work,  and  was  one  of  the  most  valued  med- 
ical workers  in  the  League  Settlement  of  the 
"slum"  districts.  Her  old  coldness  and  reserve 
had  given  way  to  a  serene  self-poise  of  heart  and 
life — a  most  admirable  attainment. 

Skoot  was  making  great  progress  in  school, 
spending  his  spare  hours  in  Mr.  Warham's  office. 
He  had  decided  on  the  practice  of  law  as  his  pro- 
fession, and  friends  were  not  wanting  to  help  him 
through  college  and  law-school.  Better  than  all, 
he  was  fast  developing  a  strong  Christian  char- 
acter, and  daily  taking  on  added  nobility  of  life. 

But  Molly — impulsive,  warm-hearted,  gener- 
ous Molly — how  shall  we  describe  the  change  in 
her?  Her  eyes  were  as  mirthful,  her  dimples  as 
roguish,  her  lips  as  smiling,  as  of  old,  but  she  wore 
a  modest  black  dress,  and  a  little  bonnet  lay  in  her 
lap.  Molly  had  become  a  deaconess ! 

Nay,  dear  Christian  of  older  years  and  more 
limited  outlook,  do  not  shake  your  head  and  frown. 
You  do  not  know  how  Molly's  voice  falls,  like 
living  water,  upon  the  parched  and  dusty  clods 


140  SKOOT 

of  human  heartache;  you  do  not  know  that  her 
small  hand  is  a  lever  strong  enough  to  raise  many 
a  stricken  girl  from  shame  to  useful  and  noble 
living;  you  do  not  know  how  her  face  shines  like 
a  star  in  the  dark,  murky,  reeking  places  of  earth. 
Surely  the  sad  old  world  has  need  of  just  such 
faces  as  hers  framed  in  the  white  ties ! 

"The  last  one  of  us  all  whom  we  should  have 
expected  to  develop  into  a  full-fledged  deaconess," 
Margaret  was  saying.  "What  a  transformation 
in  all  our  lives  that  summer  at  Idlewood  made ! 
Surely  Pansy's  prayer  for  us  was  realized." 

"Her  life  was  so  short,  in  years,"  said  Dora, 
"yet  her  influence  is  going  out  through  our  lives 
unto  others,  and  through  them  still  on,  further 
than  we  can  at  all  comprehend.  Only  when  we 
reach  heaven  shall  we  realize  how  far." 

"We  never  knew  or  sympathized  with  the  un- 
fortunate until  we  knew  her.  Since  then  it  has 
been  our  greatest  happiness  to  mingle  with  them 
and  try  to  help  them.  Sometimes  I  wonder  why 
men  and  women  should  ever  crowd  and  climb  to 
gain  the  high  places,  when  the  Master  himself 
walked  such  lowly  paths.  Surely  he  chose  life  in 
the  valley  in  preference  to  the  mountain-top." 


SKOOT  141 

"The  Master  walks  in  the  valley  yet,"  said 
Molly,  reverently,  "and  it  is  the  joy  of  our  lives 
that  we  meet  him  there.  Blossoms  grow  there 
that  are  not  found  on  the  summits — blossoms  of 
peace,  and  content,  and  trust.  There  may  be  gold 
in  the  mountains,  but  there  are  lilies  in  the  valley. 

*  The  bvooks  are  shallow  on  the  mountain  side, 
Though  bright  and  sparkling  in  their  onward  flow, 
But  the  deep  stream  rolls  silently  below. 

He  who  would  understand  the  meaning  wide 
Of  life,  must  pass  where  bubbling  fountains  fail, 
And  stoop  to  drink  the  waters  of  the  vale." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  then 
Molly  went  on,  reverently  as  before : 

"When  I  think  of  my  danger  when  we  first 
knew  Pansy,  and  all  that  God  has  saved  me  from 
through  her  sweet  ministry,  I  feel  that  a  long  life 
of  service  would  not  be  enough  in  which  to  show 
my  gratitude.  Dear  little  Pansy!" 

And  Margaret  said  softly,  "It  is  well  with  the 
child." 


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